Secrets of a Soprano (18 page)

Jacobin observed her enjoyment with an air of satisfaction. “I have an interesting item of gossip,” she said in a casual tone. “Somerville has come to terms with Nancy Sturridge.”

“Jacobin! I didn’t think proper ladies were supposed to know of such things.”

“They’re not, but of course we all do. According to my maid she accepted his carte blanche yesterday. Do you mind?”

“No. It’s just that Miss Sturridge and I have a different dispute. Some of the newssheets have reported stories about my attitude to the other singers in the company and I believe it is Nancy who spread them. She’s jealous of me.”

“Perhaps she’ll stop now that she has landed Somerville as a lover. He should keep her busy.”

During a visit to Jacobin’s adorable twins in the nursery, Tessa reflected on the novelty of a friendship outside the world of opera. How lovely it would be not to think about her voice. Not to worry about the dangers of the changing temperature or a passing shower. Not to consider every sip or bite and its effects on her vocal cords. She never touched cream or cheese. How many years had it been since she’d enjoyed a cup of milky tea or coffee?

Burying her nose in young Lord Storrs’s neck, she inhaled his baby scent, wholesome yet to her more exotic than the perfumes of Provence. She listened to Jacobin soothing the fussing of little Lady Felicity and relished the vital importance of such a commonplace action.

When, she vowed, Mortimer released the funds she’d earned, she’d take a long holiday, far from the theater and, above all, far from men. Too bad the wretched creatures were necessary for the conception of children. She would like an infant of her own, but not enough to consider another husband. Perhaps she should get a cat.

Max, Somerville, Waring, Domenico, Mortimer. She’d had enough of them.

Somerville’s defection didn’t trouble her. There had been a moment, when she learned the diamonds were false, that she’d feared taking a rich lover was her only choice. Then she remembered all the times that Domenico had enumerated the assets of this Milanese
conte
or that Austrian Archduke and what they’d pay to take La Divina to bed. Sometimes he’d turn nasty when she resisted. “Lucky he doesn’t know what a cold bitch you are, or he’d never offer so much to own you for a night. Since you can’t please your husband you might as well make yourself useful elsewhere.”

The baby in her arms squirmed as her arms involuntarily tightened. “
Desculpe
,
meu querido
,” she whispered, as her Portuguese nurse had to the infant Tessa.

Never. She would never sell herself.

Pride had saved her, and the other reason. The reason it was impossible for her to take a lover.

Absently rocking the baby in her arms, she blocked the memory of Domenico’s worst legacy. But the other result of the evening that had led to her nightmares had to be faced.

Desperate and distraught, she’d determined to take revenge on her husband by bedding another man, but in a way that wouldn’t yield Domenico a sou. She shuddered as she recalled the plush chaise against her back, Edouard Delorme’s flashing blue eyes and bare chest looming over her, the scent of mint, his soft, pampered tenor’s hands tugging at her bodice.

Taking another man to her bed wasn’t an option. For any reason.

“A certain singer of Continental habits will entertain tonight at the house in Piccadilly. Does the Beau Monde, then, so easily forget the insult lately dealt our brave wounded by Madame F?”

The Morning Post

T
essa was familiar,
both as entertainer and guest, with some of the grandest residences in Europe. Since coming to London she had learned that, compared to the palaces of Vienna and Paris, the houses of the English aristocracy were often modest affairs. Her cousin’s husband, Lord Storrington, was as wealthy as an archduke, yet his London house, though commodious and well-appointed, was part of an unassuming Brook Street terrace. With a few notable exceptions, Englishmen preferred to display their wealth and power at their country estates.

Lady Clarissa Hawthorne was one of those exceptions. While the Piccadilly front of Tamworth House was unprepossessing, forbidding even, massive double doors led into a courtyard revealing an imposing classical front flanked by well-proportioned wings. Marvels awaited the visitor admitted to the marbled and gilded two-story hall, lit by giant chandeliers and attended by an army of footmen.

Tessa found herself trembling as she and Sempronio made their way up one side of the double-curved staircase to the main floor. Though accustomed on stage to moving with confidence in the most unwieldy costumes, she held the long train of her gown as insurance against an embarrassing accident. This house was the equal of any she’d seen, aside from royal residences.

This was where Max had grown up. She now understood why Lady Clarissa had been ready to pay handsomely to save her only son from a nobody like Tessa Birkett.

More magnificence greeted her in a saloon worthy of a king, a richly furnished double cube hung with a series of historical paintings by Rubens. She could hardly take in the décor, receiving only a fleeting impression of lots of marble pillars and the lavish application of gold. Tessa found the room sparsely peopled this early in the evening, and at once saw Max in a far corner, conversing with two young women.

She had no trouble identifying the tall woman in blue who came forward to meet her, the very image of Max with the same dark coloring and severely handsome features. Despite her age, which must be close to fifty, Lady Clarissa Hawthorne’s curls, intricately arranged under a stylish turban of silver tissue, sported not a hint of grey. Experienced in theatrical artifice, Tessa saw that Lady Clarissa hadn’t abandoned her coiffure to the vagaries of nature but had confided it to the care of a master. Tessa wouldn’t mind knowing the name of her hairdresser.

“Madame Foscari,” Lady Clarissa said, in tones that brought to mind the haughtiest grand duchess at the Tsar’s court, “I have heard a great deal about you.”

Tessa swept a low curtsey and resisted the urge to kiss the huge sapphire ring on the proffered hand. Then she raised her head and stopped short at the sight of Lady Clarissa’s necklace. Those sapphires couldn’t really be the size of hen’s eggs could they? Not quite. Maybe bantam’s eggs.

The other woman examined Tessa’s neck in return. While not exactly welcoming, when she spoke again her voice was curious rather than hostile. “I see you’re not wearing your diamonds this evening. I had been looking forward to seeing the famous Russian jewels.”

Thank God! Tessa had found herself unable to even look at the damned things once she knew they were false. Neither had she worn the French cameos. Displaying Napoleon’s gift was unlikely to assist her return to English social respectability. Instead she’d chosen her most elaborate evening gown, a low cut affair of ivory satin, heavily encrusted with pearls, embroidery, and gold lace. Even without jewelry she’d felt overdressed. Until she saw Lady Clarissa. No one could feel overdressed in the presence of those sapphires.

“With this ensemble I felt diamonds would be gilding the lily,” she said. “My compliments on your own necklace. I have rarely seen such brilliant stones.”

Lady Clarissa’s eyes narrowed at the blithe response. Good! Tessa was determined not to let this woman intimidate her. She might be monarch of her own realm—the London
ton
—but within her own sphere Tessa was her superior. She tilted her head proudly. And almost lost her composure when Max approached with a cautious smile on his face.

Cool civility was the attitude she was determined to maintain with him. She wouldn’t let herself be again provoked into discourteous behavior. However offensive he became she would remain calm. Unfortunately Max had the ability to ruffle her feathers like no one else.

“My dear Signora Foscari.” At least he’d dropped the obnoxious “Mrs.” He raised her gloved hand to his lips. “How beautiful you look! Welcome to my mother’s house. I am, as always, looking forward to hearing you sing.”

“Thank you, Lord Allerton. I trust I will do justice to such a setting.”

“I have no doubt of it.” His dark eyes caressed her with what looked like admiration and placed her serenity at risk.

“Max! Miss Bellamy has arrived with Lady Caroline. I know you will wish to greet her.
I
shall see to Madame Foscari.” Lady Clarissa’s interruption was delivered with a stern look that Max apparently comprehended, though not without a mulish cast to his countenance.

He took his leave of Tessa with a murmur that he’d see her later and strolled off to join a lady and her rather pretty daughter. The lady’s dragonish expression made Lady Clarissa look like a pussycat.

“Dear Max,” Lady Clarissa said. “He has gladdened my maternal heart by agreeing, at last, to find a suitable wife.” She placed the smallest emphasis on the word “suitable.” Since this kind of confidence to a stranger, and one hired for the evening, seemed hardly typical of a woman of Lady Clarissa Hawthorne’s eminence, Tessa took it as a warning. A most unnecessary one.

“Let me introduce to you some of my guests. Are you acquainted with Sir Henry Waxfield?” Her ladyship was anxious to fob her off on another man.

“I don’t usually mingle with my audience before I perform. I need to prepare myself.”

Lady Clarissa waved aside the objection. “Surely not just for a song or two? I wouldn’t want to take advantage of you with excessive demands.”

Tessa tried not to laugh. A song or two was hardly an excessive demand given her handsome fee for the evening. The suspicion that Lady Clarissa had exaggerated her passion for music hardened into certainty.

“I had planned a program with several long arias, including two in German,” she said with a straight face and was rewarded with a barely disguised look of horror.

“I won’t hear of it,” Lady Clarissa said. “One short song is all I require. Maybe two. Did you say you knew Sir Henry?”

Reassured that the engagement wouldn’t overtax her vocal powers, Tessa turned her mind to the other object of the evening—that of restoring her acceptability in London society. She curtsied to the baronet, whom she remembered meeting at her cousin’s house, and prepared to make herself agreeable. He eyed her with a lascivious gleam and took his time about kissing her hand.

“And here is Mr. Lindo,” Lady Clarissa added, summoning a passing gentleman with an imperious nod. “You must meet Mr. Lindo, the manager of my son’s opera house.”

Lindo was in his mid-forties, Tessa guessed, a good-looking man with a serious, intelligent cast to his features.

“I’m happy to meet you,” she said. “I very much admired your company when I heard
Il Barbiere di Siviglia
.”

“And I,” Lindo responded, “have been rendered speechless with admiration each time I’ve had the honor of hearing you,
madame
.”

Sir Henry interrupted their exchange of compliments. “May I help you to procure a glass of wine, madam?” he asked. Then he lowered his head and his voice. “You must be anxious to escape the present company. It’s bad enough for Allerton to consort with a Jew, without allowing him into his mother’s drawing room.”

The words were perhaps meant for her ears alone, but they were perfectly audible to the object of Waxfield’s malice. Tessa pulled away from him and placed her hand on Lindo’s arm, dismissing all thought of impressing Sir Henry.

“I was not aware,” she said, “of Mr. Lindo’s race or religion, but knowing his exquisite taste in music I am not surprised. You must know, Sir Henry, that many great musicians and artists are Jewish. It is always a privilege to find oneself in the presence of talent.” She wrapped her arm around Lindo’s. “Would you be good enough, sir, to escort me to the piano? I must prepare for my performance.”

*

“You didn’t need
to do that,” Simon murmured, as Teresa Foscari dismissed Sir Henry with the briefest of nods and dragged Simon towards a door. “I’m grateful, of course, but I’m quite accustomed to such treatment. It’s why I tend to avoid social occasions.”

“I have no patience with such bad manners. Nor such prejudice. Why, then, are you here tonight?” She quivered with indignation.

Simon eyed her in surprise. La Divina at close quarters was a stunning beauty who made the most of nature’s considerable gifts by the clever use of cosmetics and the dressmaker’s art. But she seemed younger than he expected and, beneath the glossy veneer, simpler and more sincere than any operatic diva he’d ever met. Her willingness to snub a wealthy baronet in defense of him—and his race—intrigued him.

“I came to see you, of course. To hear you sing is always an honor. To meet a woman of such exquisite beauty was an additional incentive.”

La Foscari examined his face. “You don’t seem the kind, Mr. Lindo, to engage in fulsome flattery.”

“You are correct. That was no flattery.”

While she attended to his words, Simon noticed her eyes flicker around the room and narrow as they rested on Max, deep in conversation with a pretty young brunette. How interesting.