Secrets of a Soprano (9 page)

Tessa clung to
Lord Somerville’s arm with a great deal more enthusiasm than she felt. She enjoyed the rakish marquess’s company but, inured as she was to evading the advances of the most determined plutocratic suitors, keeping Somerville at a distance demanded considerable skill. She was a little weary and her defenses weak. The last thing she needed now was a confrontation with Max.

Lord Allerton. She must think of him as Allerton.

It hadn’t escaped her notice that he was on friendly terms with her cousin. Jacobin greeted them with her usual animation but Tessa barely noticed. The chatter of five hundred upper-class voices faded into a low buzz and all she knew was a familiar dark head and a pair of broad, well-tailored shoulders. And impenetrable granite eyes.

“Somerville,” he said with a curt nod. “Mrs. Foscari.”

The very address seemed an insult. The press, and the public following its lead, referred to foreign-born performers by the appropriate courtesy title. She was properly addressed as Signora, or Madame should the speaker find the distinction between Italian and French beyond his comprehension.

“My lord?” she said, arching her brows toward the heavens.

“A word with you, if I may.”

“I am listening,” she said, just as stiffly. What could he have to say to her? If it was an apology for his rudeness at their last meeting she’d like others to hear it.

“Would you step aside for a minute?” He offered his arm. “I won’t keep you from your friends for long.”

His tone was civil rather than warm. Impelled by curiosity, she relinquished Somerville’s arm, gingerly placed her hand on Max’s proffered sleeve and let him lead her to a spot near a window. Privacy was impossible in a house filled to bursting, but they were a yard or two away from any eavesdroppers.

“Yes, my lord?” she said, letting go of his arm and putting her hands behind her, exerting every muscle to appear calm and relaxed, the opposite of the way she felt. She had to tilt her chin to see his face, still grave, still inscrutable. “Well?”

He said nothing. With only a foot or two of space between them she sensed his tension. Or perhaps only her own. His gaze evaded hers and headed down, over her mouth, her chin, to her neck and the exposed area of her upper chest. Was he ogling her? It seemed unlikely. He had yet to display a gleam of admiration and she could see nothing lascivious in his eyes. What did he want? His silence accelerated her mounting panic. She took a step backward.

“That necklace,” he said finally, his voice almost hoarse. “I know where…”

Everyone knew where she acquired it, and doubtless everyone thought they knew what she’d done for it. No one but Max Hawthorne had the ill manners to say so. In another second he was going to accuse her of bedding Napoleon Bonaparte. She stepped back again and sensed the nearness of other guests. He was going to imply she was a whore again, and once again people would hear him.

Pressure grabbed her chest like a giant fist and the room and all its inhabitants dissolved into a blur of light and color. Heat flushed her bare shoulders and neck and her fingers tingled with fear. One hand clenched tight enough to feel her nails digging into her palms through her glove as the other snatched a glass from the grasp of an astonished bystander.

Her aim was never very good with her left hand. The crystal wine glass spun over his shoulder, hit a silk brocade drapery and slid to the floor, miraculously unbroken. But the gesture wasn’t entirely in vain. A carmine stain spread over Lord Allerton’s white linen neckcloth and gray embroidered waistcoat.

As usual, the violent motion drove back her panic. The world came back into focus and her ears regained their function, the noise of the rout intensified by exclamations of shock from the guests. Tessa pinched her lips tightly, ashamed of her behavior, and furious with Max for provoking a scene she’d meant to avoid. Then she noted the avid glee of the onlookers and her actress’s pride came to the rescue.

No one ever accused La Divina of not giving the audience what they wanted. She lifted her chin to an arrogant angle, cast a dismissive glance around the circle of spectators, then turned to her cousin who had pushed through the crowd to reach her side.

“I trust I didn’t hit you, Jacobin.”

Jacobin looked thoroughly amused. “How could you have done that at Lydia Sackville’s house, of all places? London will be talking of nothing else tomorrow. I should have sacrificed Anthony’s Chinese bowl.” She surveyed her green silk. “Not a drop on my gown, but I can’t say the same for poor Allerton.”

Eyes like coal bored into Tessa over the shoulders of a couple of people who were dabbing at Max’s spoiled clothing with their handkerchiefs. He didn’t say a word but if looks could singe she’d be burned to a crisp.

She wanted to run away and weep, but she never cried. It was bad for her voice. Just as she stood arrogant in the face of provocation to maintain the aura of the operatic goddess, she also had to guard the vocal cords that were the foundation of her fame and fortune.

She would not weep but she could strategically withdraw. She was about to suggest to her cousin that it was time to leave, when her hostess appeared, wearing a broad smirk.

“Dear Jacobin,” Mrs. Sackville said. “How good of you to bring your cousin to my little rout.” She turned to Tessa. “Signora Foscari. Please come and look at the rest of the house. We must determine the best room for your recital.”

Reminding herself how much she needed the fee for the engagement, Tessa let herself be let off like a spoil of war. Mrs. Sackville, in a state of elation that such a sensational occurrence had enlivened her soiree, was determined to show off her famous guest.

Scarcely attending as Mrs. Sackville presented her to a group and reminded them that Madam Foscari would be singing here soon, Tessa glanced over her shoulder at Jacobin, who mimed retching motions. As for Lord Allerton, the last she saw of him was his tall figure sailing through the throng toward the staircase and freedom. She wished she could do the same, though not in his company.

“On Friday Signor Rossini’s opera of THE BARBER OF SEVILLE was sung for the first time at the Regent Opera House. The French singer Monsieur Delorme was very fine in the role of Count Almaviva.”

The Morning Post

“The Tavistock Opera House on Saturday had a complete overflow from all parts of the House. Long before the curtain was drawn up, great numbers were turned away that could not gain admittance. Madame Foscari sang divinely and received the greatest applause. It is with great pleasure that we recall her genius is the product of an English family.”

The Morning Post

M
ax hurled the
newspaper onto the desk in the manager’s office, scattering Simon Lindo’s neat piles of paper. “She is not English. To my knowledge she’d never even set foot on these islands till a month ago. We’re the ones with the English soprano.”

A review of the receipts had painted a worsening picture at the Regent. Musicians, craftsmen, and attendants had to be paid, but the money wasn’t coming in. If things didn’t change soon there wouldn’t be enough in their accounts to meet expenses. Accustomed to writing a bank draft for whatever he needed, Max found his financial restrictions strained a temper already severely frayed by another disastrous encounter with Teresa Foscari. He’d like to wring the soprano’s lovely neck, and his mother’s too.

“Goddamn it!” he exploded. “Why don’t they come?”

“Patience, Max,” Simon said. “The new opera was well-received by the audience.”

Max dismissed the offered consolation. “Much good that is when the house is half empty.” His lovely Regent, which he’d designed with such care and lavished with every amenity, had been rejected and he took it personally. He had intended to make London appreciate what opera could be when done to the highest standards, to share with them his pleasure in the most sublime of all theatrical arts.

London showed every sign of not giving a damn.

Max folded his arms and glared at the newspapers.
The Examiner
was even worse than
The Morning Post
. “I can’t believe what that idiot Mount Edgcumbe wrote.”

“But you must admit,” Simon said, “that his reservations about our soprano are not without justification.”

The influential reviewer had opined of Miss Lucinda Johnston’s coloratura that “it were to be wished she was less lavish in the display of her powers, and sought to please more than to surprise.” The fact that he was quite correct in his assessment of Miss Johnston’s tendency toward excessive vocal ornamentation did nothing to make Max feel better.

Max couldn’t tell Simon what really troubled him. He knew why Lindo was so serene in the face of the depressing box office receipts. Without precisely promising unlimited funds, Max had always given the impression that he would carry the Regent financially until the new house got onto its feet. Simon assumed that if there was a temporary problem meeting bills, Max would step in and advance the cash.

And he would have but for his wager with his blasted interfering mother.

“I shall continue my efforts to drum up interest,” he said. “I see that Mrs. Sackville has paid for her box. And I fancy Lady Storrington will be persuaded to purchase one.”

Simon leaned forward with an arrested look. “Lady Storrington attended
The Barber of Seville
with Madame Foscari. It was gracious of La Divina to patronize us.”

Max almost growled. “I don’t see why. She should be grateful for the opportunity to see a superior performance of a great work in a magnificent opera house.”

The manager lowered his voice as he did when he had a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “I’ve heard that Mortimer might accept an offer for Foscari’s contract. Gambling debts, so the rumor goes.”

“Surely he’s making a fortune, filling the house every time she sings.”

“The expenses of running a house as large as the Tavistock are very high. He might not be able to resist the temptation of a large sum in ready money.”

Max said nothing, refusing to take the bait. He couldn’t explain why it was impossible for him to try and buy the contract, and Simon wouldn’t ask him point blank.

After a brief pregnant silence the manager realized his partner wasn’t going to offer his millions to the cause. “If we can’t hire La Divina, let’s at least try to get her onto our stage. If she’d agree to sing at the Chelsea Hospital Benefit we’d be assured a full house. It would give those people a chance to see how superior the Regent is. I’d like to see a little of her luster rub off on us. Would you ask her to lend her services for the night?”

Please God, no!
“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I know my strengths, and tact isn’t one of them. You are already acquainted with the lady.”

“The lady doesn’t like me,” Max said curtly.

“You mean the episode at Mrs. Sackville’s house?” Of course Simon’s gossip network wouldn’t have missed that. “Nothing to worry about. Merely prima donna histrionics. I know all about them, and in the end a singer will always pursue her own best interest.”

Yes, indeed
! Max was sure Teresa Foscari would do that. He had his doubts that she would regard singing without payment as worth her while.

“We will ask her to set aside the rivalry between our houses for a good cause,” Simon added. “As a man of importance, she’ll be more receptive to you than a mere theater manager.”

Despite a deep reluctance to ask Tessa for a favor, Max had to admit Simon’s idea was a good one. They had to do
something
to save the Regent.

When he’d let Lady Clarissa goad him into that foolish bet, Max had had no idea how ignominiously he might lose, or how soon. He could find himself betrothed to a horse-faced duke’s daughter by the end of
this
season.

The choice was easy though not painless. He would rather face a thousand former loves than give Lady Clarissa the satisfaction of seeing him surrender.

*

After a few
weeks in London, Tessa was a famous figure, her portrait available in the print shops, her every move detailed in the newspapers. Her carriage and hired footmen were needed because she had only to set foot out into the street to be mobbed by the curious, anxious to share the reflected glory of the London Season’s most celebrated visitor. Even a quiet visit to Hatchards bookshop had attracted stares and rude inquisitiveness about the books she was buying. She ended up smiling graciously at her fellow shoppers and leaving the selection of reading matter to Sofie.

As a result, Tessa had learned to take her exercise early when she could go out without being recognized and accosted. In the morning, her fellow walkers in Hyde Park were, for the most part, nursemaids and their charges. None of them had any idea that she was La Divina and wouldn’t have cared if they had. She and Angela might as well be alone.

“Signora Foscari.”

Not quite alone. She walked on, refusing to turn because she recognized the voice. But, as she well remembered, Max Hawthorne had a long stride and no difficulty catching her. Though she continued at a brisk pace, he walked alongside her without effort.