Secrets of a Soprano (12 page)

But today her mind was elsewhere and she couldn’t keep a foolish grin off her face.

“You look cheerful.” Sofie, still wearing her bonnet, walked into the sitting room. “Angela told me what happened this morning. How does your throat feel?”

“It seems to have survived the experience,” Tessa replied. “Sempronio ran through some exercises with me. There’s no reason I shouldn’t sing tonight. I am very well.”

Better than well, in fact. She felt marvelous, filled with a kind of excited anticipation. “But how about you, my dear? I trust you didn’t get wet. I forgot that you were going out this morning?” She’d never forgive herself if Sofie, who was prone to chills, put her health in danger running an errand for her.

“I took the carriage and was quite warm and dry. Lucky Lord Allerton was there to save you from the rain.”

“Assuredly,” Tessa agreed. “Though if he hadn’t kept me talking in the park I would never have been in danger of getting wet.”

“From what Angela told me, Lord Allerton behaved like a true gentleman,” Sofie said.

Angela didn’t know everything. Tessa wasn’t ready to confess to Sofie that Max had treated her with anything beyond common courtesy. And certainly not that she’d enjoyed it. Dwelling on just how good his kiss had felt made her muddled and stupid.

Angela had arrived with an armful of dry clothing soon after the appearance of the footman with tea. Max had left the room, but the look in his eyes later when he kissed her hand and helped her into the carriage had spoken volumes. He admired her, yes, but perhaps he’d only kissed her because that’s what men did when they found themselves alone in a room with a half-clad lady of reasonably good looks.

Did he feel anything beyond casual lust? And what about her? Could she possibly be thinking about Max Hawthorne, whom she’d sworn never to forgive, as a potential lover? He’d been very young when he deserted her. He could have changed.

“We had an agreeable conversation in the park,” she told Sofie calmly, while inwardly she hugged herself in secret glee. She couldn’t discuss her complicated feelings for Max, but they could still talk about him. She
wanted
to talk about Max. “He knows opera and his taste is excellent. Perhaps I should consider singing at the Regent next season. What do you think?” Sofie liked him so that should be enough to get her started.

Instead of launching into enthusiastic agreement, Sofie frowned. “Perhaps. But you should hear what I learned this morning.”

“Did you manage to find Nancy Sturridge’s woman at the Tavistock?”

Wishing to improve relations with her fellow soprano, she’d sent Sofie to open diplomatic channels.

Sofie’s face held the intent look that heralded a particularly succulent piece of gossip. “It seems,” she said, her voice lowering confidentially, “that Miss Sturridge was upset because both Somerville and Allerton asked you to supper after your debut.”

“Allerton?” The name came out more sharply than Tessa intended. “I know Nancy hopes to become Somerville’s mistress. I had no idea she was interested in Allerton.”

Sofie cast aside her bonnet and settled on the end of Tessa’s sofa, obviously ready for a lengthy session. “For years, it seems, the two men have been rivals for different singers.”

Pushing aside the shawl, Tessa swung her legs off the chaise and sat upright. “You mean both have had many singers under their protection?”

“Yes. Allerton prefers great voices and the marquess is more attracted to…” Sofie moved her hands in exaggerated curves. “Allerton had Isabella Cavatini as his mistress for two years. A good voice, that one, but no bosom. Also some others I hadn’t heard of. English singers,” she explained dismissively. “Often he and the marquess fought over the same woman. Both were after Nancy—flowers, gifts, supper parties, the usual.” Tessa nodded. She was familiar with the negotiations of backstage liaisons, even if she’d never conducted them herself. “Nancy expected to gain excellent terms from whichever man she chose. Then—” Sofie paused for dramatic effect. “Then you came along. It’s bad enough that you are winning all the best roles. Now she’s afraid you’re going to get all the best men too!”

“Really?” Tessa said, ice in her heart dripping into her voice. “And which does she favor? Who usually wins this contest for the favor of sopranos?”

“Both men are rich, among the richest in England, but more often it is Somerville who has come out ahead. You remember Maria Tosti? A beautiful girl, though her voice is no more than mediocre. She was in London three seasons ago and they were both mad for her. She chose Somerville.” Sofie’s thin shoulders shrugged. “It seems strange to me. For myself, I would prefer Allerton. Perhaps you agree with me after today.”

“My dear Sofie, I am not remotely interested in entering a competition with Nancy Sturridge, or anyone else, for the privilege of being bedded by an idle nobleman engaged in a contest of masculine dominance with one of his peers. I know everyone believes my body is available to the highest bidder, but I assure you only my voice is.”

“Don’t look at me like that, Tessa. Of course I know that. You would never go to a man for money. But what of marriage? You are of good birth. Why shouldn’t he wish to marry you? Allerton, I mean. Or Somerville. But Allerton looks more the marrying kind to me.”

Yes he did. She’d thought Max the marrying kind before, and been proven wrong. How foolish she was to hope he’d changed. He’d only ever wanted to get into her bed and, to her shame, she’d given him reason today to believe he might succeed.

“Marriage?” She tried to keep her tone amused. “Do you think I’d ever fall into that trap again, after Domenico?”

“Not all husbands are like that. Think how happy I am with Sempronio! Wouldn’t you like to have children?”

Domenico had never wanted children. Early in their marriage she’d concurred, and they had taken precautions to make sure she never conceived. Later such measures had been unnecessary. Only at the end had her longing for a child made her resume conjugal relations with her faithless husband, the worst mistake of her life.

Damn Domenico. The legacy of her marriage was one of endless problems. Even if her reputation and finances could recover, her soul was permanently damaged. With no chance of happiness for her, she had been a fool to even think about Max.

Disguising her pain, she raised the most obvious objection to Sofie’s ridiculous hopes. “This discussion is fruitless. You of all people know that noblemen don’t marry singers, especially ones with my reputation. Thanks to Domenico everyone thinks I’ve been bedded by half of Europe. A respectable man would never offer for me.”

Sofie tried to console her, though she knew as well as Tessa how Domenico’s machinations had fed the prima donna’s notoriety. “As the owner of his own opera house, Lord Allerton must be more liberal in his views than others of his rank.”

It was the wrong thing to say, or perhaps the right one. Contemplation of Max Hawthorne’s sins—past, present, and future—aroused Tessa from self-pity to anger. “He would want me only as a new pearl on his string of operatic mistresses. No thank you, Sofie. He can keep his money and his opera house. I want nothing to do with either.”

*

He should have
waited till tomorrow, Max thought as he bounded up the stairs to the hotel’s best suite. She would be resting for the evening’s performance, assuming she hadn’t taken a chill despite his best efforts. But he needed to assure himself. And he had a perfectly good excuse. To settle the matter of the hospital benefit. She hadn’t given him an answer. He’d never even completed the request.

Other events had driven the matter from his mind.

Despite the civility of their conversation in the park, his resentment had yet lingered, mingling with his anxiety for her health. When he’d entered the spare bedchamber with the towels, any kind of amorous encounter with La Foscari had been the furthest thing from his mind. From the moment he saw her barely clad—and then just bare—it had been the only thing.

He grinned. The truth was he couldn’t wait to see Tessa again.
Tessa
. Two fervent embraces and a kiss, and he was as enthralled as he ever had been. She’d seemed to reciprocate, at least physically. Was it possible that, at long last, he would be able to have Tessa Birkett? Exactly what “having” her would entail he didn’t know.

The maid with the crooked nose greeted him in the vestibule and took his card. Hearing voices within, he stiffened. There was someone with her already. A man? Perhaps Somerville or another admirer. Without waiting to be announced he followed Angela into the room.

Tessa rose from the sofa looking magnificent in a midnight-blue dressing robe. Hardly typical dress for receiving guests. The look on her face was far from welcoming. Beautiful as a goddess, she resembled neither the sensual creature who had melted in his arms a few hours earlier, nor the shy girl who’d thanked him for his kindness as he sent her home in his carriage. This goddess was displeased. Apparently he’d interrupted something. He scanned the room.

Not, thank God, a tryst. Signora Montelli was the other occupant.

“Tessa—” he began. She glared. Maybe not. “Madam,” he started again, off balance at the contrast between his expected reception and her current frigid demeanor. “I called to assure myself of your good health.”

“I am quite well, thank you, my lord.”

“No ill effects from the rain?”

“None.”

“Then you are well?”

She didn’t even bother to answer and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. Why did he have to be such a dullard? Usually when pursuing a woman he could converse adequately if not with brilliance. But then usually the women he approached were eager to be pleased, happy to encourage the advances of a wealthy man. Tessa might be as interested in money as the average singer of his acquaintance, but at the moment she clearly wasn’t interested in his.

She was tapping her foot. What the devil had occurred since they parted earlier? He glanced at Mrs. Montelli for help. She’d appeared to favor him in the past but her expression was impassive if not hostile.

“Madam,” he turned back to Tessa. “May I speak to you alone?” Without the Austrian woman’s unblinking observation he could perhaps find the words to ask what was wrong, to rekindle the warmth of the morning.

“Anything you have to say, my lord, can be said in front of my companion. I cannot conceive that you have any offer to make me in private that I’d wish to consider.”

Mrs. Montelli sat down, signaling a resolution to remain.

Since it was impossible to bring up their recent intimacies in front of her, to discuss what he really wanted, he fell back on business.

“The rain interrupted my request this morning. I was inviting you to sing at the Regent on the twenty-fifth of this month.”

Tessa stared at him as though he’d sprung a second head. Her fingers reached for a vase of flowers on a nearby table and he prepared to duck. But she snatched back her hand. Her fists clenched repeatedly. What had happened? If he read the signs correctly, she was furious. Or insane.

“It isn’t, of course, a lucrative engagement but…”

“Lord Allerton,” she said, her voice brittle. “I wouldn’t sing a single night, not so much as a single song, at your opera house. Not if you offered me a thousand pounds. Not even for two! I have too much pride ever to take anything from you for any reason.”

“The new method of lighting the house answers perfectly. Every object, either on the stage or in the different parts of the theatre, is as distinct as in the clearest daylight, whilst at the same time, unless we look upwards, we are not conscious of from whence the light proceeds. The beautiful form of the interior of the new Regent Theatre is seen to the utmost advantage.”

The Morning Chronicle

“S
he said what?”

Max again repeated Tessa’s words for Simon Lindo’s benefit, eliciting a whistle of disbelief from the theater manager. On leaving the Pulteney, Max had wasted no time tracking down Simon at the Regent to report the failure of his mission.

“Two thousand pounds?” Simon said. “Surely she must have been joking.”

“I believe she may have been exaggerating, but she otherwise appeared quite serious in her refusal to sing.” Unlike Tessa, Max was understating the case.

Simon paced. “It’s a pity,” he said. “The article in today’s
Morning Chronicle
was most favorable on the subject of the Regent’s design and facilities. Following it with the announcement of La Divina’s appearance would be timely. Are you quite sure she won’t change her mind?”

“Quite sure.” Neither would he ask. Ever.

Hardly knowing what he said, he’d excused himself from the hotel suite and staggered downstairs and out into the street. He had wanted to believe she was different now. Fool that he was, he had for a few hours wanted to love her again. He could make no sense of her behavior today—in the park, in his house, or in the Pulteney—but he knew that she would always disappoint him. The woman’s dominant character trait was greed and it always had been, as he learned on his last day in Oporto. The walk along Piccadilly to the Regent had been spent revisiting that long ago morning.