“And why should I wish to do that?” The music master was only slightly mollified by this acknowledgment of his superiority.
“Mademoiselle Desmoulins tells me that everyone in the operatic world looks to you as the arbiter of taste and quality. When a new singer makes her debut upon the scene, and Mademoiselle de Montargis will make her debut, everyone will follow your lead in assessing her ability. I should think that you would wish to maintain your position as the leader of musical taste. Should someone besides you discover the next Catalani, people might begin to doubt your reputation as the leader of the musical world here in London. Popular acclaim can be so very fickle, you know, and it would be unfortunate if your leadership were superseded by someone who is your inferior.” Christian spoke in the most conversational of accents, but here was no mistaking the steely undertone in his voice.
Though inclined to look askance at men-about-town who considered themselves to be musical connoisseurs. Signor Bartoli was astute enough to recognize a man who put considerable thought into whatever he said or did. There was an intensity of purpose in the eyes boring into his that was rare in anyone, particularly a member of the ton and, in Signor Bartoli’s experience, this intensity shone only in the eyes of those who were extraordinarily gifted or extraordinarily dedicated. However, he had a reputation to maintain and he was not about to give in easily, no matter how noble the cause.
“Hmmm.” The music master narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Davvero. What you say may be true, but if she does not become the next Catalani, then where is my reputation? Finite! You had better bring her to me. I shall listen to this young person and, believe me, with the first note I shall know if you have fooled me into listening to a crow instead of a nightingale. As you say, signor, I am the arbiter of quality, and if I find that there is nothing there, why there is not anything you could do to give this young person a career in the opera. Capite?”
“Understood. And I thank you, Signor Bartoli.”
The old man rose and waved his hand dismissively as he headed toward the door. “Non fa niente.”
The interview was obviously over. Christian rose and retrieved his hat from the hall table where Maria had placed it. Bowing with as much dignity as he could muster in the face of such a brazen dismissal, he thanked the music master again, descended the stairs, and stepped out into the busy street. He tossed a coin to the boy who had been holding his horse, mounted Ajax, and made his way slowly toward Piccadilly, puzzling on how to accomplish the next step in his plan, which was to convince Isobel to visit the music master. This step was likely to be as difficult, if not more so, than his dealings with Signor Bartoli.
Chapter 11
Christian received assistance with his stratagem from a most unexpected quarter in a most roundabout way.
Albert had been so outraged by his wife’s suggestion that a Hatherleigh, even a Hatherleigh of such dubious reputation as his brother, should be evincing an interest in a servant in his household, and a French servant at that, that he took advantage of the first opportunity to speak to Mademoiselle Isobel. Just two days after Lady Daventry’s soiree and his wife’s revelations, he called his daughters’ music teacher into the library.
Isobel, who had rarely seen the duke in all her visits to Grosvenor Square, was completely mystified by the summons to the library, however, one look at his grave expression told her that the interview was not going to be pleasant. She could not imagine that she had done anything to displease her employer, but he certainly looked far from happy. In fact, he appeared to be distinctly uneasy as he sat behind the enormous mahogany desk, fiddling with a silver letter opener.
“Ah, er, it has come to my attention, ah ...” He paused uncomfortably. “Ahem. As you well know, we Hatherleighs have a proud heritage to, er, maintain and ...”
Isobel could not help thinking how very different this square-faced ponderous man was from his glib, audacious brother and, for a moment, occupied with this interesting thought, she lost the thread of his argument, which had not actually progressed any further than the illustrious nature of the Hatherleigh name and his role as head of the Hatherleigh family and Duke of Warminster.
At last she could endure the hemming and hawing no longer. Obviously the gentleman was in need of some assistance, unless she wished to be stuck there the entire day while he made up his mind as to the best approach for addressing what was obviously a delicate subject. “Your Grace, if you have called me in to speak to me in private, there is clearly something troubling you that has to do with me. Pray tell me what it is and I shall endeavor to address whatever concern you might have.”
Under the clear-eyed gaze of the self-possessed young woman sitting in front of him Albert felt horribly ill at ease, though nonetheless convinced of the rightness of his position. Damn it, she was a servant, and French. The idea that his brother should have any interest in her was preposterous, but her poise and her calmness were unnerving. It was unnatural for a servant called before her employer to be that calm. “Ah, well. Lord Christian, I mean it is most improper, though I suppose with the proximity ... ahem, as head of the household I cannot allow you to continue seeing Lord Christian.”
A cold fury washed over Isobel. How dare he even think that a daughter of the de Montargis’s could possibly contemplate such dishonorable behavior! She gripped the arms of her chair and took a deep breath as she struggled to master her anger long enough to speak. When she was certain that her legs would support her, she rose to her full height and stared contemptuously down at the duke. “How dare you, sir, question the honor of a de Montargis? I should never behave so improperly as to have any personal connection with anyone in the house of my employer. And, if I were contemplating such a connection, I should certainly not allow the name of a de Montargis to be linked to that of an English parvenu. You need not trouble yourself to show me out. I shall bid Sophia and Augusta adieu before I go, for it would be unseemly to disappear without a word, but rest assured that I shall no longer have any contact with your family.” And turning on her heel, Isobel marched from the room, leaving Albert to stare blankly after her.
He was still staring blankly at the books on the wall in front of him when his wife hurried in some twenty minutes later. “What in heaven’s name has happened, my lord? I was conferring with Grinstead about the wine order when Sophia and Augusta came in crying to me that Mademoiselle Isobel had come to bid them good-bye. She offered no reason of her own for leaving and since I have been most pleased with the girls’ progress I can only assume that you know something about this.”
The duke shifted uneasily under his wife’s accusing gaze, but he soon recovered himself. “Dammit, Lavinia, we cannot have Christian involved with a servant in his own household.”
“Servant? Isobel de Montargis’s birth is better than yours, my lord. Her ancestors were leading the Crusades while yours were still sturdy yeomen tilling the fields in Hampshire.” Lavinia, whose own lineage was far more ancient than her husband’s, could not entirely hide the triumphant note in her voice. Albert, who was extremely sensitive to the fact that his title had only been in existence since his ancestors had given aid and comfort to Charles II, flushed uncomfortably. “Perhaps, but that still does not change the fact that she is French and entirely unsuitable for Christian.”
“Albert,” Lavinia burst out in exasperation, “we are not talking about a match for Christian, but someone who teaches the girls. Your brother, who is far more likely to go to his grave a bachelor than the victim of a ruinous match, is eminently capable of watching out for himself. In the meantime, Sophia and Augusta have lost an excellent instructress and someone they truly admired and enjoyed. There was not the least need to speak to her, and even less need to give her notice.”
“But I did not give her notice. She gave me her notice.” Albert was beginning to feel very ill-used. All he had wished to do was to protect the honor of the family and his brother’s good name and for doing this, for accepting the responsibility to which he had been born
, he was being treated as though he were some sort of an ogre.
“And well she might after being so insulted. I should have too,” Lavinia concluded severely as she swept from the room, leaving her beleaguered spouse to sift glumly through the pile of correspondence on his desk.
But Albert was not done with recriminations. The next morning he was again accosted in his library by an outraged family member. This time is was Christian who was furious and he was even more damning toward his brother’s behavior than Lavinia had been. Still in his riding clothes, he strode into the library, his face dark with anger. “I should like to know, Albert, by what right you justify your intrusion into my affairs?” His voice was icily calm, but it took no special powers of intuition on his brother’s part to see that he was seething.
Albert had never seen Christian so angry. The gray-green eyes glittered emerald in their intensity, and his face was white and taut with suppressed fury. If the truth were told, Albert was already a little in awe of his younger brother, who had always possessed a daring and savoir faire that Albert secretly envied and he lived his life with a passion that made the stately Albert acutely uncomfortable. “Well, I...” Albert struggled to regain control of the situation, but his session with Lavinia had already shattered his customary sense of righteous responsibility. He took a deep breath and rose to his full height, which, unfortunately, did not exceed his brother’s six feet three inches. “As head of the family, it is my duty to see ...”
“If you will recall, I reached my majority nearly a decade ago, and I have been risking my life for my country for some time. I think I have the right to live as I damn well please, and I certainly have the right to make an acquaintance without my elder brother’s jumping to conclusions. As far as your responsibility goes, it is your responsibility to treat anyone and everyone in your employ with respect. Devoid of a sense of responsibility though I may be, even I know that. Now I am going to do my duty for the family by seeing to it that someone in its employ is not cast off without some means of support. And if you so much as think about stopping me, let me remind you that the family reputation is in my hands as well as yours.” In truth, Christian had not the slightest idea what he would do to carry out this threat, but he knew that his brother, who worshiped the god of respectability, would never do anything to risk incurring the slightest blemish on the family’s good name, so he felt reasonably assured that Albert, much as he might wish to, would not interfere in Christian’s plans for the Duke of Warminster’s former governess.
However, as Christian well knew, getting the young woman in question to accept those plans was another thing entirely. There was no time like the present and, driven by the energy of his angry interview with Albert, Christian made his way toward Manchester Square.
Having gleaned a rough idea of the location of Mademoiselle Isobel’s lodgings from his nieces, Christian had had the forethought to send Digby to discover the precise number of the de Montargis residence in Manchester Street. The redoubtable servant had quickly struck up a nodding acquaintance with several of the domestics in that area and was able to furnish his master with the young lady’s direction with his customary dispatch.
Assured of the address, Christian now grasped the shiny brass knocker and rapped imperiously. Even Grinstead, who could, when called upon, assume the haughtiest expression of any butler in London, could not have examined Lord Christian as critically as the servant who opened the door and conducted him up the dimly lit staircase to the sparsely furnished drawing room. Marthe was always fiercely protective of her family, but when the visitor was an unknown Englishman, she could be positively threatening. Her square figure was as solid as any man’s and the arms, strengthened by years of rolling out her delicate pastries, were even bulkier than Digby’s. The tiny dark eyes set close together over a snub nose in a broad face regarded him warily, nor did this expression change even when he gave her his name.
Faced by such a daunting figure, even Christian did not have the temerity to ask for Mademoiselle Isobel, but settled instead for requesting an audience with her father, hoping that the Duc de Montargis would be more approachable than his formidable servant.
“Milord Christian Hatherleigh,” Marthe announced to the figure bent over a desk by the windows.
Thus interrupted, the Duc de Montargis rose and turned to receive his visitor with all the stately graciousness of a levee at Versailles, as though the worn blue carpet that Christian crossed was the finest Aubusson and the walls were hung with magnificent tapestries instead of a few prettily executed watercolors in the simplest of frames.
The duc took a chair on one side of the meager fire and waved his hand in the direction of a most uncomfortable sofa covered with faded blue damask and, inclining his head with an air of old-fashioned dignity, waited for his unexpected caller to state the purpose of his visit.
Fighting the urge to fidget under that calm, indifferent gaze, Christian began. “Your Grace, I made the acquaintance of your daughter at the home of my brother.”
There was not the flicker of a response or recognition in the pale blue eyes surveying him.
Refusing to be daunted, Christian continued, “The Duke of Warminster. Mademoiselle Isobel is, er, instructing my nieces in music, I believe.”
The due remained infuriatingly impassive.
“At any rate, I was most impressed by her exquisite singing. She has a gift, a rare gift, and it is a great shame to have it wasted on my nieces, who cannot possibly appreciate it.”
The duc unbent enough to acknowledge this praise with the most infinitesimal of nods.
“And I should like.” Christian paused. What precisely did he want? Actually, all he had hoped to accomplish by this visit was a chance to see Isobel again and perhaps to convince her to meet with Signor Bartoli, but how he was to accomplish this with her father treating him as though he were some vassal on the de Montargis’s estates, Christian had no idea.
He cleared his throat. “I have an acquaintance, very influential in the musical world, to whom I would like to introduce her.” Christian cursed himself for a fool. Lord, he had not sounded this awkward since he had been called upon to recite his first Greek translation at Eton.
“It is very kind of you to wish to encourage my daughter in her interests, but there is really no need. She is amply supported by our own friends and any further show of interest would undoubtedly make her uncomfortable. She has been most carefully brought up, monsieur, and is not accustomed to the freedom that your English young women have. I fear that she would find your concern, though kindly meant, most disconcerting. Her nature, like her mother’s, is gentle and retiring, and the thought of encountering people outside of our world would undoubtedly prove distressing to her.”
Christian had a brief vision of the duc’s gentle and retiring daughter taking him to task for interrupting her private moment at the pianoforte. Carefully brought-up she might be, but Christian would never use the word retiring to characterize Mademoiselle Isobel. However, he could see that he would get nothing from her father. It was quite obvious that the duc considered Christian as unacceptable an acquaintance for his daughter as the Duke of Warminster considered Mademoiselle Isobel for his brother and it was equally obvious that Christian was not going to be allowed to see the young woman herself. Swallowing his frustration, he rose and, bowing slightly toward the duc, thanked him for his time. “And should you ever need the assistance of anyone beyond your circle of acquaintances, I do hope that you will not hesitate to call upon me.”
The due inclined his head slightly. “That is most kind of you, Lord Christian.” His words and demeanor were gracious enough, but it was obvious to both the duc and his visitor that the Duc de Montargis would never need the assistance of Lord Christian Hatherleigh. And it was equally obvious that his daughter would never learn of Lord Christian’s visit from her father.
As he left the drawing room, Christian nodded in a friendly fashion at Marthe who, knowing that no Englishman remained
for any length of time with her master, was hovering in the hall ready to escort him to the door. He wondered briefly whether or not she was likely to inform her mistress of his visit, but he could read nothing in the shrewd black eyes or impassive face that gave the slightest clue as to the degree of closeness between her and Mademoiselle Isobel.
The door shut behind him and Christian stood rooted to the pavement as passersby on Manchester Street made their way on either side of him while he contemplated his next step. It was clear that he would have to arrange an encounter with Isobel somewhere else if he were hoping to speak to her, but as he had no idea of the pattern of her daily existence, this would be difficult, if not impossible. The only possible recourse he had was to frequent the neighborhood in Manchester Square, hoping that he might run into her as she called on friends. Surely the de Montargises had chosen to live in this area of the city in order to be close to their fellow émigrés.
When the second person who passed him glanced back over his shoulder at the man standing motionless in front of the de Montargis’s door, Christian decided it was high time to leave. He could not very well just wait outside her door until Mademoiselle Isobel either entered or exited. Such behavior would undoubtedly raise the suspicions of the formidable servant, who had certainly looked brawny enough to toss him into the street if she took issue with his presence outside the family’s residence.
Chapter 12
Though unsuccessful in his interview with Isobel’s father, Christian was far more fortunate where the daughter was concerned. In fact, Isobel had not been home at the time of his visit, but worried about their livelihood now that she had left her position at the Duke of Warminster’s, she had gone to call on the Comtesse de Sallanches at her atelier in Soho to offer her services for hemming and the cruder sewing that needed to be done on the embroidered dresses the comtesse had made so popular.
My Lady Nightingale Page 9
