My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  “But, Albert, I do not think that you or the family is the object of that interest,” Lavinia objected softly.

  “Well, what else is there of interest?”

  “Mademoiselle Isobel.”

  “Mademoiselle Isobel!” Albert’s large jaw dropped, making his long face appear even blanker than usual. “Mademoiselle Isobel?”

  “Yes, dear. You remember her, she teaches the girls their music and their French.”

  “A governess? Christian is interested in a governess? No, Lavinia, I may not be so nimble-witted about these things as some, but I know my brother would never be interested in a governess—an opera dancer perhaps, but never a governess.”

  “Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis is not just any governess, my dear, she is a French emigre of impeccable background and prodigious talent who was highly recommended to me by Mama’s friend Lady Barford with whom she and her family lived for many years after the de Montargis escaped from France.”

  “I’ll not have a Hatherleigh consorting with some damn Frog, Lavinia, and there’s an end to it—a governess at that. I am astounded that Christian, who has spent so much time fighting those damn Frogs, will have anything to do with one, even if she is a female.”

  “But, Albert, he was fighting Napoleon. The French émigrés are on our side.”

  “She’s French, ain’t she? The exiles are no better—a pack of papists living off pensions from our government with no more gratitude for what we have done to save their lives than ... Bah! they carry on their little court and make merry in their salons as though the death of their king and queen had never happened. I tell you, I have no patience with the French—royalists or otherwise.”

  After this tirade, Albert lapsed into gloomy silence while his wife strove mightily to think of some more salutary topic with which to distract him. “Grinstead tells me that the new footman is doing very well and he feels much encouraged at how quickly he has learned his duties.”

  A discouraging “Hmph” was the only reply, so she abandoned this effort and fell silent herself, hoping fervently that her husband would soon forget that she had ever mentioned Mademoiselle Isobel’s name in connection with his brother’s.

  But Albert did not forget and he brooded over the situation for several days. Christian had always been a problem where women were concerned. They were forever falling in love with him. From the chambermaid at Warminster Hall, who neglected her duties to pine over the handsome fifteen-year-old lad, to the actress in his university days, to some of society’s more dashing matrons, he had always found himself in situations of a most sensitive nature. In all honesty, Albert had to admit that Christian had never been the one to initiate these situations, but in Albert’s opinion, if his brother had exhibited the proper sense of what was due to his position in society instead of adopting the easy, friendly air that characterized his relations with the servants and all his social inferiors, these regrettable affairs might never have occurred.

  Albert had been all for getting rid of the chambermaid, but somehow Christian had gotten wind of this and protested mightily. “You must not blame the girl for falling in love with me, Albie, she cannot help it.” Christian had winked broadly at his brother, whose rigidly disapproving expression had not altered in the slightest. “Why not put her in the kitchen? At least there our paths will never cross and she will constantly be under Cook’s eye. That would cure anyone of a grand passion.”

  “I wish you would not call me by that ridiculous name. It is entirely unsuitable,” Albert had responded irritably, but he had followed his brother’s suggestion and peace, along with some semblance of order, was once again restored. But the maid was only the first of many women who had been irresistibly drawn to his brother, all of them highly unsuitable. While it was true that as he got older more of the women were from his own class, they were always women with reputations that did not bear much looking into. Albert was thankful that none of the women whose names had been linked to Christian’s were eligible young ladies of good family. His brother was too confirmed a bachelor to tempt them, and those who did happen to be attracted by the teasing smile, the rakish air, the wicked glint in the gray-green eyes, or the athletic physique, were quickly warned off by their watchful mamas. However, the fact that Christian preferred to be avoided by these well-bred young women only infuriated Albert all the more.

  But this young woman was someone over whom the Duke of Warminster had some influence and he resolved to use that influence at the very first opportunity.

  Chapter 10

  While Albert deplored Christian’s latest interest in the fair sex as being rather too close to home, he would certainly not have been reassured by his brother’s appearance at a snug little house in Marlyebone the very next day. The owner of the house, however, felt quite differently and had welcomed Christian with open arms.

  Blanche Desmoulins had been plain Blanche Miller, a rising star in a group of traveling players from Derbyshire until she had been discovered by Lord Ormesby, who had repaired to his country estate to recover from disastrous losses at the gaming table. He had been so pleased with the young lady that when he had recouped his finances sufficiently to return to London, he had taken her with him, set her up in a house in Marylebone, and, at the lady’s request, introduced her to some influential people in the theatrical world.

  Blanche, who possessed a fair degree of natural talent as a dancer, was even more distinguished by her willingness to work hard as well as an ability to get along with everybody, a trait that endeared her to managers accustomed to coping with a variety of artistic temperaments, all of them difficult. It was this reliability that had soon won her a permanent position in the corps de ballet at the Royal Opera House.

  Lord Ormesby had again been forced to rusticate, but by this time, Blanche had won herself a score of admirers and was well on her way to becoming a permanent fixture among the theatrical set. It was at this point that Christian, home on leave from the Peninsula and already bored to tears by a few days of ton parties, had discovered her. Neither the lady nor the gentleman had expected anything but a brief, physically satisfying relationship from the affair that had ensued and they parted cordially, but without great regret, when Christian left to rejoin his regiment. However, he had visited Blanche on the rare times that he returned, finding her easy company and a refreshing change from the exacting expectations of her more fashionable sisters.

  Blessed with many wealthy admirers and commanding a salary from the Royal Opera Company, Blanche could afford to enjoy Christian’s visits purely for the sensual gratification they afforded her and therefore did not plague him to devote more time and effort to her than he wished to.

  Over the course of the years they had become friends, each finding in the other’s company an appreciation and an acceptance that they did not find elsewhere. Therefore, when Christian arrived at the decision to do all that he could to promote the career of Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis, it was natural that he should turn to Blanche Desmoulins for her advice and guidance. It had taken him some time to realize that he wished to involve himself to such a degree in that young woman’s life, but once he had, he had immediately sought out Blanche.

  “Hmmm.” The lady, reclining luxuriously on a red damask sofa, played with the magnificent rope of pearls cascading over her generous bosom, and stared meditatively at the pair of lovebirds in the gilt cage by the window. “No matter how talented you say the young lady is, she will need someone to sponsor her. Let me think now ... Yes, that is it.” The riotous mass of golden curls bounced vigorously as she nodded. “She must engage Signor Bartoli as a singing master, for without his recommendation she will never succeed anywhere. However, if she wins his approval, her career is made. He lives in Saint Martin’s Street.” The lady rose slowly, stretching languorously in a manner calculated to show every curve in her exquisite figure to its best advantage. She glided over to the escritoire by the window, which she opened and, pulling out a sheet of paper, scrawl
ed a few lines, sanded it, folded it, and handed it to Christian.

  “There, this should offer you some introduction. The signor is notoriously temperamental and very jealous of his time. He will not waste it on anyone, certainly not the mere brother of a duke or a hero of Vitoria, unless that person has some connection to the world of music. This, however”—she waved the note and glanced saucily at Christian—“should at least make him listen to you. After that, you are on your own and it is up to you to convince him of your protégée’s merits. And I warn you, she must have a more than a beautiful face and elegant figure to recommend her.”

  “But”—Christian surveyed Blanche appreciatively from head to foot—”a beautiful face and elegant figure obviously help.”

  “Oh, make no mistake about it. While it is true that Signor Bartoli would not have had anything to do with me if I had not in some way been connected with the opera, our connection was ... er ... not a musical one.”

  “Ah.” Christian grinned. “At least he possesses some human failings, then.”

  “Very few. It was quite a long time before he paid the least attention to me, and even longer before we were, ah, mmm, intimately acquainted.”

  “You worry me. This man sounds truly formidable.”

  The lady nodded slowly. “Indeed he is, which is why his recommendation is invaluable. It will be difficult to obtain, but if your singer is truly the talent you say that she is, and if she wins his approval, then she will need no other patron, believe me.”

  “My utmost thanks, Blanche.” Christian reached over to clasp one dimpled hand and caress it with his lips. “And, now, what can I do for you?”

  “Need you ask, my lord?” The lady pulled him to her and slowly entwined her arms about his neck, drawing his lips down to meet hers as she molded her body to his.

  “It has been a long time.” He sighed against her full red lips as she expertly undid his cravat.

  “Too long,” Blanche agreed, sinking back on the sofa still tugging gently on the cravat.

  Christian gave himself up to the inevitable, not that he objected in the least, for Blanche was an even more talented lover than she was dancer and she took her partner’s pleasure seriously. He never failed to enjoy himself with Blanche, and he never felt anything but completely satisfied and pleasantly exhausted when he left her. She never ruined a delightful interlude by demanding to know when she would see him again or by hinting at an inclination for expensive jewelry, a new carriage, or complaining of ruinous dressmakers’ bills or household expenses.

  It seemed such a simple, logical thing for a woman to enjoy a man the same way a man enjoyed a woman, but in all his years of loving them, Christian had never met a woman besides Blanche who did not demand something of him besides the pleasure of his company.

  It was this thought that lay at the root of Christian’s bachelorhood. It was not that he did not like women; he did—some people said that he liked them too much. It was not that he did not believe in love; he did. It was just that he had never met a woman who had convinced him that she loved his person better than she loved his title or his position. It was not even that he did not believe in marriage; he did, in theory. It was just that he had yet to encounter two people who had married simply because they enjoyed one another’s company. Christian felt that he was being entirely reasonable in expecting that, if he were going to commit himself to one woman for the rest of his life, that she commit herself to him, Christian Hatherleigh—not Lord Christian, not brother to the Duke of Warminster, or the master of Farwell Abbey, not even Lieutenant Colonel Lord Christian Hatherleigh of the Third Dragoon Guards, though, for some reason, that would have been more acceptable than the others. But thus far, he had never met anyone who simply wanted Christian, the man, except Blanche. But then, Blanche wanted Charles, the man, and Gerald, the man, and a host of others. While Christian did not object to sharing such a delicious ladybird with other connoisseurs of female pulchritude, he did object to becoming serious about someone who enjoyed such a wide variety of male acquaintances.

  Some hours later, he left the house in Marylebone, having shown his proper appreciation for its owner’s advice, and promising to let her know if there was anything further she could do. Like everyone and everything else in London, Blanche Desmoulins had remained unchanged in Christian’s absence, but unlike everyone and everything else, it heartened him to see that she had remained the same.

  As the sky was already turning pink in the west, Christian decided that, despite his eagerness to advance Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis’s career, he would put off calling on Signor Bartoli until the next day, using his time instead to attend a vocal concert in the New Rooms, Hanover Square where Charles and William Knyvett were performing. Christian had purchased a subscription to the complete set of concerts after reading that Madame Catalani had been engaged for the entire Season, and there was no time like the present to familiarize himself with the players if he were going to help his protégée take her proper place in the concert world.

  Indeed, as Christian sat through the vocal offerings of the Knyvetts, he spent a great deal more time envisioning Mademoiselle Isobel’s graceful figure and expressive face before him in this particular setting than he did actually listening to the music. As he was leaving the concert, he did examine the crowd to see if perhaps he could discover someone who might be Signor Bartoli, but as the majority of the audience seemed to consist of stately dowagers accompanied by timid female companions, it seemed unlikely that the singing master was present.

  The next day, however, Christian put his plan into motion, sending Digby to the house in Saint Martin’s Street with a request for an audience with Signor Bartoli.

  “He says you may call this afternoon, though he didn’t look to be pleased about it,” the batman reported later. “Said he does not take pupils no matter who their relatives might be. You will have to look sharp about you when you talk to him because it’s my opinion that he knows a plumper when he hears one, and you can’t win him over by offering him Spanish coin neither. He is going to mistrust anything you say about wanting to help a young woman because of her talent. This signor is a gentleman and has all his wits about him and then some, but he has agreed to see you because I said you were a true connosewer.”

  “Thank you, Digby. I shall endeavor to establish my credibility at the outset and do my best to live up to the reputation you have given me.”

  That afternoon Christian presented himself at the slender brick building in Saint Martin’s Street. The door was opened by a young maidservant who was obviously taken aback by his appearance. Either the master of the house had few callers or they did not resemble Christian in the slightest. He was just beginning to wonder what type of callers did frequent the house when a querulous voice called, “Maria, che fai? Vieni qui!”

  Taking his beaver, the maidservant led him up the slender staircase to the sitting room. Christian, who was noted far and wide for the elegant severity of his attire, had dressed with more care than usual that morning, arranging his cravat in the simplest of styles, and choosing the plainest of waistcoats to go with his dark blue coat and biscuit-colored pantaloons. Despite this lack of ostentation, however, he still could not help feeling, as the music master scrutinized him disdainfully from under shaggy brows, that to Signor Bartoli, he presented the picture of the veriest fop, a Bond Street fribble who was entirely beneath the gentleman’s notice. It was a novel, if not unnerving, experience. Not even as the rawest of subalterns being reprimanded by the colonel of his regiment had Christian felt as lowly as he did at this moment.

  “Well, sir, I hear that you insist on wasting my time begging me to listen to some acquaintance or some family member who thinks she can sing.”

  “If it were going to be waste of your time, signor, be assured that I would not waste my time,” Christian replied somewhat sharply. He paused, took a deep breath, and began more calmly. “Naturally you are suspicious, sir. However, the person is neither a relati
ve nor some ladybird whom I wish to launch on a convenient career. In fact, the lady in question has not the least idea that I have taken this step. Undoubtedly she would be supremely annoyed if she knew the extent to which I am meddling in her life. Even if I can succeed in winning your permission to introduce her to you, I am not at all certain that I can convince her to be introduced, for she is someone who values her independence above all else and who is confident enough of her talent to believe that she has no need for the patronage or influence of anyone. It was Mademoiselle Desmoulins who insisted that I speak to you, and as the note from her delivered by my batman attests, she can vouch for my sincerity.”

  The music master subjected Christian to a piercing glance. “Very well, then.” He pointed to a chair on the other side of the fireplace as he settled back into the chair opposite it. “And what makes you so certain that this, er, young person would be of interest to me.”

  “She is not a young person,” Christian responded evenly enough, though the casual observer would have been able to see from his clenched jaw that he was exerting some effort to keep his temper in check. “She is Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis, daughter of the Duc de Montargis, and she has been engaged as a music teacher to my nieces. It was at my brother’s house that I overheard her singing ‘Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen’ with such clarity and precision that I was immediately struck by it. I have also been impressed by her exquisite rendition of ‘Porgi amor,’ which, of course, does not show off her range as well as the other, but I once heard Catalani in the same role and did not think she performed it nearly so well as Mademoiselle de Montargis.” Christian did not miss the significance of Signor Bartoli’s skeptically raised eyebrow. “Naturally, I am the veriest amateur, but I have heard no one equal to Mademoiselle de Montargis, which is why I have come to you for only you can truly evaluate her potential.”