A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance (3 page)

‘Never made you an offer? Nonsense! Of
course, I did.’

‘No you didn’t. I think I should have
remembered if you had. Eight years isn’t
that
long.’

‘But—did your father not tell you I—? I
wrote and made him a formal offer for your hand. When I visited your aunt’s
house that morning, I was informed you had declined it.’

‘Declined it!’ She lifted her hands to
her cheeks, her eyes wide with horror. ‘And you believed him?’

He shrugged. ‘I had always thought the
prize out of my reach.’

‘So that was why you went away! Oh! He
told me that he had demanded to know your intentions and you had said that you
had none.’

He looked a little amused. ‘The
Machiavellian old devil! I make him my, rather belated, compliments. An
inspired solution to the problem.’

 She was not listening. ‘So that last
evening—we were talking at cross-purposes the entire time. You thought I had
refused you, and I thought you were jilting me.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘Oh, Jarvis, if only I had known. I
should never have married Brookenby, never.’

Without turning, he reached out a hand
behind him, and she clasped it. ‘I am glad we know the truth now, sweet Zanthe.
But it makes no odds, you know. We are still forever parted.’

‘No, I won’t accept that.’

He turned then and bowed over her hand,
lifting it to his lips. ‘I’m afraid you will have to, Lady Brookenby. Because I
have no intention of offering for this little hand—ever again.’

‘Dash
it! Is the doorknocker never still?’ Young Mr Sydney, who had looked forward to
a quiet morning nursing a sore head, had winced at the sound of a carriage
clattering up the crescent and now, as a smart rat-tat-tat sounded on the door,
he held his head in his hands, groaning.

‘Not since that morning in the Pump
Room.’ Zanthe pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Launceston would not tell me what hold
he has over Mrs Weatherspoon. I would love to know, wouldn’t you?’

‘I wonder he took the trouble. You were
not so very well acquainted with him before you married Brookenby, were you?’

Zanthe fell silent remembering. Waltzing
in his arms, stolen moments in a moonlit garden, reverent kisses that grew more
and more ardent until she ran from him, frightened, not of him but of herself.

‘No, not so very well.’

The butler had opened the front door.
They heard the sound of voices. ‘One of the hordes of your admirers, I
suppose,’ Perry said with a long-suffering sigh.

She held up her hand, laughing a little.
‘Not one of mine; Margery’s!’

The door opened, and the butler
announced, ‘The Reverend Mr Cholmondeley and Miss Cholmondeley.’

Zanthe rose and held out her hand warmly
to greet them. She still found them a droll pair, especially the lady, but she
could not but respect their simple piety and palpable goodwill.

‘Will you not sit down here by the fire,
Miss Cholmondeley? How very kind of you both to come and see us in this
dreadful weather. How it does pour down!’

‘Ah yes’ sighed the Reverend. ‘That is
Bath for you, I fear.’

‘Indeed,’ echoed his sister. ‘One must
always carry an umbrella in Bath, you know.’

Zanthe laughed. ‘I had not thought anywhere
could be wetter than Lincolnshire, but I was mistaken. Since we have been here,
I have noticed that, while there is nowhere more delightful in the sunshine, there
is nowhere more dreary in the rain.’

As they conversed amiably, moving on
from the weather to a concert that the twins were getting up to benefit the
unfortunate, Zanthe noticed that the Reverend appeared somewhat distrait. He
looked up hopefully whenever footsteps were heard outside the door, and his
consequent disappointment was comical to behold. After about ten minutes, his
patience was rewarded as Margery Brookenby came into the room with studied
nonchalance.

It was instantly apparent to Zanthe that
the last ten minutes had been spent by Margery in changing into a more becoming
gown and a hasty rearrangement of her hair. She wore a long-sleeved round-gown
of burgundy crepe, with black beading across the modest décolletage and a deep
trim of black, gold, and crimson embroidery around the hem. Her head was
adorned with a majestic black satin cap with a deep lace frill and lappets that
fell to her shoulders. When Mr Cholmondeley stood to greet her, her cheeks
flushed so as to match her gown, but her brown eyes grew so soft and luminous
that Zanthe thought she looked quite transfigured. She watched them greet each
other with all the indulgence an elderly chaperone might feel towards young
lovers.

‘Miss Brookenby, well-met indeed,’
uttered Mr Cholmondeley, his Adam’s apple bobbing agitatedly.

‘But not “
by moonlight
,”’ said
Zanthe, amused. ‘You should arrange it so, Sir.’

‘Nothing,’ averred the Reverend with
fervour
, ‘would give me
greater pleasure.’

‘Oh hush, Zanthe,’ admonished Margery, gently.
‘Do not pay any attention to her, Mr Cholmondeley. She is a sad rogue, I fear.’

But Mr Cholmondeley was uninterested in
Zanthe’s roguishness. He said, ‘We have come to beg your assistance in organising
our little concert. It is to be held at the Lower Rooms, you know, and we have
great hopes that Signora Villella, who is currently residing in Bath, will
consent to perform for a—er—nominal fee. We would be so grateful if you would
give us your aid in approaching her.’

‘I would, of course, be happy to do
anything in my power but, forgive me, how do you imagine I can be of assistance
to you?’ Zanthe was honestly puzzled.

‘We had observed, Lady Brookenby, that
you are acquainted with Viscount Launceston. He is, I believe, a very great
friend of
la cantata lirica,
and we hoped he might put in a word. If you
would be so good as to introduce us.’

Could anyone really be so unworldly? wondered
Zanthe. If the Reverend were unaware of the true relationship between the Viscount
and the newly-arrived singer, he was certainly the only person in Bath to be so
ill-informed.

She had little doubt that Launceston was
flaunting his mistress in the eyes of the respectable in order to convince her
that their love was dead and irrevocably buried. She had not the smallest
intention of allowing it to remain so, but, as she was well aware, a man in the
throes of a fit of nobility must be handled carefully. It would, she thought,
be useful, as well as exquisitely humorous, to force that dissolute nobleman
into charitable works in the company of such an innocent as the Reverend.

She favoured Mr Cholmondeley with a
charmingly artless smile. ‘Why, of course. I should be delighted.’

‘Capital, capital! I can see that you
and Miss Brookenby will be invaluable to our crusade.’

‘Crusade?’

‘The great crusade of our age, Lady
Brookenby! The crusade against poverty, ignorance, and vice! If we can but vanquish
the first two of these fearful adversaries, the third will fall to our sword without
a blow.’ Mr Cholmondeley’s voice took on a ringing quality as he made this little
speech. She felt real conviction in his bearing and was hardly surprised to see
her sister-in-law looking at him with worshipful eyes.

‘If my sister doesn’t like to approach
her, I’d be happy to,’ remarked Parry, startling Zanthe, who had forgotten he
was in the room. ‘Glorious creature, ain’t she?’

‘She has a very beautiful voice,’ agreed
the reverend gentleman in his normal, mild tone.

‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of her voice.’
Parry grinned and winked at his sister. ‘Dash it—I envy Launceston, by God, I
do!’

Zanthe interposed quickly, ‘Parry! Pray
remember your company.’

‘Oh, sorry, Cholmondeley. Still, I
daresay being a parson don’t make you blind. That hair—those eyes—’

Mr Cholmondeley gave a little cough and
then said with a certain dignity that rather abashed that crude young
gentleman, ‘I have a great respect for the lady’s artistry, but I have learned
to value the beauty of the soul more than mere superficial attractions.’ His
eyes rested tenderly upon Margery, who blushed, quite unresentful of a
comparison that might reasonably have wounded the vanity of a less modest
female. ‘The latter we see all around us; the former is rare indeed.’

 ‘It is perfectly possible to find both
in the same individual, Sir,’ remarked Zanthe rather tartly. Margery might not
resent the implication, but she did. Then she was sorry for her spurt of
ill-temper, for Mr Cholmondeley appeared confused and retreated into his shell
for the rest of the visit.

The arrival of the prima donna in Bath
had, at least, cleared up one mystery that had perplexed Zanthe. The Viscount
was the last man in the world she should have expected to waste his time in a respectable
watering place. Now all was explained. Signora Villella was engaged for a
series of concerts during the Season and would be in Bath for at least three
months before returning to her native Italy. It seemed reasonable to expect
that Launceston would remain in town for as long as his
inamorata
.

‘If you can’t get him back in three
months, you don’t deserve to be happy,’ she sternly told her reflection as she
dressed in front of the mirror for the singer’s concert the following night.

Zanthe
felt a little less certain of success when she returned to the Royal Crescent
that evening. Although she had previously seen Signora Villella driving in an
open carriage drawn by four, handsome, matched greys with silver harness and
plumed headdresses, and at a distance walking with her hand upon Launceston’s
arm in Sydney Gardens, she had not felt the full force of the prima donna’s
magic until that night.

Fiammetta Villella was by no means in
the first blush of youth. It was her boast that she had performed in the
opening production of the Teatro San Ferdinando in Naples, which had taken
place in seventeen-ninety-one and, therefore, unless she had been a child
prodigy, she could not be less than forty years old. But age was an irrelevance,
which she superbly distained. Her magnificent figure, uncorseted and leaving
nothing to the imagination, was a little voluptuous for English tastes, but no
fault could be found with the perfect ivory oval of her face, her flashing eyes,
or her classical and deceptively patrician features. The only silver to be seen
in the heavy masses of her black hair was a long pin that held the thick coils
in place. As she took the stage and stood for a moment, allowing the company to
drink in her gorgeousness, there was a murmur of admiration.

Then she opened her lovely mouth in song,
and her appearance mattered less than nothing. The exquisite, heart-breaking
notes of the Contessa’s lament from
Le nozze di Figaro:
Dove sono i
bei moment (
Where are they, the beautiful moments
) filled the concert hall, and Zanthe was not the only woman
struggling to hold back her tears.

From Mozart, she moved on to Giulia's aria
Il mio ben
from
La Scala di Seta
and finished the first half of the programme with
a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Mr Purcell’s
If Music Be The Food of
Love
.

It was during the interval, as they sipped lemonade and ate
little drop cakes, that Zanthe observed the Viscount lounging against a pillar,
looking as if he were longing for something a little stronger than lemonade in
his glass. Across the room, she caught Mr Cholmondeley’s eye and received an
encouraging little smile. With a sigh, she murmured in Parry’s ear, ‘Pray, go
and speak to Launceston. You owe him an apology, and I would like to have
speech with him.’

‘I don’t see why I should apologise to him,’ argued Parry. ‘I
didn’t ask him to haul me off over his shoulder like a sack of coal.’

‘Nevertheless, oblige me. You know I cannot go to him. All
the Bath quizzes are watching.’

By the time Parry returned with the Viscount at his heels,
Zanthe was respectably chaperoned by the Cholmondeley twins and scandal
retreated, once more defeated.

‘Lord Launceston, I do not think you are acquainted with Miss
Cholmondeley and her brother, the Reverend Cholmondeley.’

‘No, I have not had that honour.’ He bowed to Miss
Cholmondeley and shook her brother’s hand. ‘Ah, Miss Brookenby. I did not see
you there. Are you enjoying the concert?’

Margery, who had, in her customary fashion, shrunk into the
background at his approach, answered gruffly, ‘Never heard such singing. Like
an angel.’

‘I shall relay your compliments to the Signora. She will be
delighted.’

‘Do not suppose she will care what
I
think.’

‘Why should she not?’ cried Zanthe, impatient of this
self-deprecation. ‘Your opinion is worth as much as anyone else’s.’

Margery smiled. ‘To you, perhaps.’

‘And to anyone of discernment,’ said Launceston.

Margery glanced up quickly into his face, convinced he must
be roasting her; but his eyes were kind. He smiled at her and then turned to
her sister-in-law, saying, ‘Why am I summoned to your side?’

‘Well, the case is that Mr and Miss Cholmondeley are getting
up a benefit concert and were hoping that Signora Villella might be persuaded
to sing. It is in aid of
—
what did you say the concert is in aid of,
Sir?’

‘Fallen women,’ answered the Reverend, solemnly.

The Viscount gave a shout of laughter, causing several people
to turn around and stare at their group indignantly. ‘A cause close to her
heart.’

Mr Cholmondeley did not pretend to misunderstand him. ‘You
may laugh, my Lord, but in my experience it is not to “good” women that we look
for compassion towards their fallen sisters. A lady of the Signora’s
experience, on the contrary, is only too well aware that, given a choice
between virtue and hunger, virtue is often dispensable.’

‘There is no fate worse than death then, you think, Mr
Cholmondeley?’

‘Have you ever seen the effects of famine, my Lord?’

‘Yes, I have, and I agree with you.’ He shrugged his broad
shoulders. ‘Very well, I shall ask her. I think it very likely she will consent,
but do not puff it off until you hear from me.’

‘Thank you, my Lord. I felt sure we could depend upon your
good offices.’

Launceston stared at him. ‘Good God, why? Do you take me for
a philanthropist? You are mistaken, I assure you.’

‘Not at all,’ the Reverend assured him serenely. ‘But you
have the look of a good man. It is unmistakeable.’ He bowed and, turning to the
ladies, said, ‘Let me refill your glasses with this delightful beverage.’

Launceston’s gaze followed the vicar as he threaded his way
through the crowd. ‘What an extraordinary fellow.’

‘Is he not?’ Miss Brookenby was also watching the vicar. ‘I
have never met so pure a soul.’

‘I have,’ said Zanthe, squeezing her sister-in-law’s hand.
‘My love, if ever a match was made in heaven, this one is.’

‘Oh hush. There is no thought of
—he has not—it
is too late—’

‘Too late for happiness? Never!’ Zanthe
cast a challenging look at the Viscount and repeated, ‘It is never too late.
Don’t you agree, my Lord?’

‘In your sister’s case, certainly.’

Miss Cholmondeley, who had been chatting
with an acquaintance, now rejoined the conversation, and Launceston lounged
away to resume his place on the outer edge of the furthest bench from their
party.

Two days later, Zanthe received a curt
note from the Viscount. The Signora would certainly consider singing at the
benefit concert, but she would prefer to be asked personally, by Lady
Brookenby. If Lady Brookenby would call at the Signora’s apartments in Pulteney
Street
alone
, she would be happy to discuss the matter.

‘Certainly not! Not to be thought of,’
pronounced Margery. ‘A young woman like you cannot call upon a—a—
creature
such as that. I shall go.’

‘I thought you said she was an angel.’

‘I said she had the voice of an angel.
Quite different.’

‘Well, I am a married woman, or was, and
you are a mere chit with no experience. I do not see why it is more proper for
you to call upon her than for me.’

‘A mere chit of one-and-forty? Yes
indeed. Now do be sensible, Zanthe. Do you want to start people saying you are
fast
again? It is bad enough that you were seen talking with Launceston at the
concert; now you wish to be paying calls upon his—his—’

‘His mistress? Yes, I do wish it. It
would seem she has a curiosity to meet me, and I most certainly have a
curiosity to meet her. And, in any case, how should anyone know it is Signora
Villella that I am going to visit? There must be several sets of apartments in
the building.’

‘If you are determined to go, then I
shall accompany you.’

‘No, you will not. See where Launceston
has underlined
alone
. Stop fussing, Margery. What harm do you think
could possibly come to me?’

‘Not to your person, but to your
reputation.’

‘Do you really think one visit to a lady
of questionable virtue will destroy it? Are we not planning to give a concert
for the benefit of a whole bevy of such ladies?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And do not you and Miss Cholmondeley go
into their hovels to browbeat them into virtue and plenty?’

‘Not
browbeat
—we encourage them—that
is all. And it is
not
the same thing.’

‘The only difference I see is that the
Signora is wealthy and those poor souls are not. Nor, if I were you, would I
attempt to brow—
encourage
—her to be virtuous. I believe Italians are
very quick to resent an insult. She would probably have a—what is the word—a
vendetta
—against
you before you knew it.’

Margery looked up quickly in alarm. ‘You
do not think she carries a
stiletto
do you? You must not go! It is not
safe!’

Zanthe broke into a peal of laughter.
‘You have been reading Mrs Radcliffe again.’

Margery blushed and began to laugh. ‘It
is your fault with your talk of
vendettas
. Oh, I do not know why I
trouble to talk to you. You will do just as you wish. You always do.’

‘No, I don’t, but I intend to from now
on.’

Zanthe was unsure of the etiquette involved
in visiting the mistress of the man one wished to marry, but of this she was
certain—one wore one’s most becoming gown and bonnet. Therefore, she had her
maidservant lace her into a new, never worn creation, in the certainty that it
could compare with anything the Signora might have picked up on her way through
France. It was an elaborate confection comprising a dusky-blue, twilled-silk
overdress with long sleeves puffed at the shoulder with slashes, Renaissance
style, through which a glimpse of ruffled gauze could be seen. The hem was
thickly appliquéd with a design of garlanded vine leaves, in the same heavy
silk, embellished with white cord. Cascading satin ribbons fastened the over-dress,
which covered a delicate slip of white Indian muslin. A triple frill of lace
formed a ruff to frame her face, and the whole was topped by a bonnet of dark
blue satin tied under the ear with satin ribbons and adorned by a wreath of
cream-coloured silk-flowers. She dimpled at her reflection in the mirror and
wondered aloud what Mama-in-Law would say if she could see her. But then, Mama-in-Law
would comprehensively disapprove of everything she had done since the moment she
arrived in Bath, so there was really no point in worrying about the suitability
of her clothes.

  Feeling that the stipulation that she
should come
alone
was not meant to apply to her maid, this damsel
accompanied her to Pulteney Street, a brisk ten-minute walk. It was a pleasant,
sunny morning, with a fresh breeze blowing the scents of the countryside into
the streets and covering those less appealing smells that tended to drift over
from the poorer parts of the city.

The Signora had her apartments in one of
the tall houses in Pulteney Street, which, in Bath’s heyday, had been the
mansions of the aristocracy. Now split into lodgings, they were still elegant
and considered perfectly genteel for those persons visiting Bath for only a
short time and unwilling to take a lease upon a house.

Leaving her maid attempting to flirt
with the unresponsive porter, Zanthe ascended the stairs to the first floor,
where she knocked, not without some inner nervousness, upon the door and
waited. Quite what she expected, she was not sure; but when the door opened
within a few moments of her knocking, she was greeted by a perfectly ordinary
English maidservant who bobbed a curtsey and said that the Signora was
expecting her and would she please come through.

She was ushered into a large drawing
room, the blinds lowered against the sunshine, and as her eyes adjusted to the
sudden dimness, she was addressed.

‘Lady Brookenby,
welcome. I am so very happy.’

‘Thank you for your kind invitation,
Signora.’

‘Sit, please sit. You will take some
refreshment?’

‘No, I thank you.’

‘Ah, you do not wish to—what is the
expression—
eat my salt
. We are enemies, you think. But it is not so. I
am no enemy of yours. I am your greatest friend!’

Zanthe could not help laughing. ‘I am
delighted to hear it, Signora.’

‘I can help you, believe me, I can help
you with the stupid Jarvis. But first, we must come to business. When do you
wish for me to sing?’

‘We await your convenience, Ma’am, for
you are the main attraction, you know.’

‘True, it is always so. Very well. Today
is what—the twentieth of the month?’ She leaned forward and rang a little
silver bell. The maidservant reappeared. ‘Ask the Signorina to bring me the book.’

They sat for a moment in silence. Zanthe
was covertly studying the older woman. She decided that there was no real
necessity for her to lower the blinds. Her ivory complexion was unlined, and
there was no hint of sagging around the lovely line of her jaw. She wore an
opulent gown of rich, flame-coloured velvet that displayed her creamy throat,
bosom, and upper arms, which blazed with bracelets of heavy gold set with yellow
topaz and tourmaline. The thick coils of her hair had been thrust carelessly on
top of her head and held in place with amber combs. She looked as exotic as a
denizen of the Amazon rainforest, and as though she had just come from the arms
of a lover. Zanthe’s heart sank to her little kid boots. How could she compete
with this glorious creature?