My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  Isobel refused to admit how attractive the entire proposition was, but she kept telling herself that this particular moment was as good as any to repay her debt. Since she was keeping her lessons a secret from Marthe, she could not very well send the servant to Lord Christian’s lodgings with the payment, nor did she like to entrust anyone else with a sum of money. Therefore, it fell on her to accomplish the task, and what better time to do it than now when Lord Christian was likely to be out. And since it had always been her intention to repay him somehow, she had already discovered his address in Mount Street.

  Filled with a sense of purpose, Isobel strode along in unladylike haste, but the closer she came to Mount Street, the more slowly she walked, overwhelmed by an odd fluttery sensation in the pit of her stomach and a strange weakness in the knees that were as unwelcome as they were unusual. At last she found herself in front of the handsome oak door to Lord Christian’s lodgings and for a moment the fluttery sensation threatened to overcome her—it must have resulted from the breathing lessons earlier that morning—but resolutely she seized the knocker and let it fall with a thump.

  The door was opened by a wiry little man whose bright blue eyes were made to seem all the brighter by a skin so tan that it resembled old leather. If he was surprised to discover a young lady on his master’s doorstep, he certainly gave no indication of it, but opened the door with a gracious, “Good day, miss.”

  Isobel cleared her throat, which was surprisingly tight, and thrust her hand into her reticule. She pulled out the purseful of coins as well as a pencil and a piece of paper and scribbled a note of thanks. Wrapping the note around the purse, she handed it back to the man. “Would you be so good as to see that your master receives this?” Then, wishing to avoid further scrutiny by eyes that were amazingly acute, she turned hastily away and began to descend the steps. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, but now, faced with Lord Christian’s manservant, she felt all the awkwardness of the situation.

  “But I am certain that his lordship would prefer to receive this from you himself. I shall just inform him that he has a visitor, Miss ...”

  Isobel’s foot had already reached the bottom step when the servant spoke. She turned around reluctantly. “Miss Isobel de Montargis.”

  “Mademoiselle Isobel!” To the considerable surprise of both Isobel and the servant. Lord Christian materialized in the hall behind him. “You were quite right, Digby, in thinking that I should wish to speak to her.” Christian did not elaborate on the unusual perspicacity of the batman, who was far more accustomed to informing importunate women that his master was not at home than he was to encouraging them to speak to Lord Christian.

  Apparently Digby had deduced, and quite correctly too, that this was no ordinary young woman. Usually, Digby, who was paid exceedingly well to protect his master’s privacy, dispensed with any unusual visitors swiftly and easily, so the fact that there had been some discussion with this one had roused the curiosity of Lord Christian, who had been well within earshot and able to recognize the visitor’s voice.

  “Do let us go into the library, mademoiselle.” Christian gestured to the doorway just visible straight ahead at the top of the staircase. Not knowing what else to do, Isobel followed his direction and proceeded ahead of him up the stairs. Behind her, Christian paused just long enough to glance over his shoulder and nod approvingly at the batman.

  Satisfied that he had correctly interpreted his master’s wishes, Digby returned to his task of decanting the port that had been interrupted by the appearance of this surprising young lady. Though he always strove to maintain the wooden expression appropriate to his calling, the batman did allow himself to indulge in the tiniest of grins. Meanwhile, Digby’s mind was alive with speculation. To be sure, the female sex, both proper and improper, were always running after his lordship, but the improper ones usually demanded an audience, and the proper ones rarely showed their faces, preferring to send footmen or pages with discreet missives. Nor could he ever recall that any one of them, proper or improper, had ever wished to give his master anything. It was quite the opposite—so much so that in his mind at least, Digby had begun to equate the word female with the word demanding.

  But this female had been powerfully intent on giving something to his lordship and equally intent on leaving it without his lordship’s knowledge. It was all very strange and very intriguing.

  Chapter 15

  In the library, Isobel was giving Lord Christian something else beside money—a piece of her mind. “It is most improper, most unacceptable of you, my lord, to attempt to pay for my lessons and I will not have it.” Having refused the chair he offered her, Isobel stood in front of the fire clutching her reticule. “If I had known you were planning such a thing I should never have agreed to see Signor Bartoli.”

  “And what did he think of you? I’ll wager he was most surprised and pleased to discover that I knew what I was about when I arranged for your introduction to him. Did you enjoy yourself?”

  “Oh yes.” She sighed. “It was extraordinary how in such a very short time he was able to help me attain a good deal more control and much greater force in my singing. He is very clever, is he not?” Delighted by the opportunity to share her exciting experience, she allowed herself to be diverted momentarily from her tirade. “Nevertheless”—she grasped the reticule more firmly—”I cannot allow myself to be indebted to you, so I have come to return to you the cost of my lessons.”

  “My dear young lady, there is absolutely no need for that. Believe me, it is a mere trifle, and I cannot think of any way I would rather spend it. Your enthusiasm is more than ample repayment for the little I have done.” He saw that she was not in the least convinced. “Very well, then, think of it as my contribution to the musical public at large by furthering the refinement of an exquisite artist. No, no.” He closed her fingers around the proffered purse. “I could lose as much, nay, I have lost as much in one evening at the card table. It is absurd for you to feel you must pay me back.”

  “But I must!” The words burst from her. “Even as it is, I can never begin to thank you for introducing me to Signor Bartoli.”

  Looking down into those blue eyes, dark with the intensity of her feelings, Christian was not a little touched by her desperate wish to be independent, to be beholden to no one for anything. What a singular person she was. He was not at all sure that his spur-of-the-moment gesture was worthy of such a response, and he could not help feeling a little ashamed in the face of such gratitude; after all, he had done it almost as much for himself, and to spite his brother, as he had done it for her.

  Christian was silent for a moment as he tried to find the words to convince Isobel that by letting him help her she would be the one granting him a favor, giving him the chance to participate once again in something worthwhile, something valuable, something beyond the fashionable routine of the ton. “Of course you must pay me back.”

  The thick, dark lashes fluttered in surprise. She had not expected him to give in so easily. “But it will not be with money, I will take more than money.” A teasing note crept into his voice as he paused to gauge her reaction. A slight blush tinged her cheeks, but she continued to return his gaze steadily, if uneasily.

  “You must tell me what I may do.” She spoke calmly enough, but he could tell from the rapid pulse at the base of her throat that she was afraid to hear what he would demand in payment.

  “It is not entirely fair because it will take more effort on your part to repay the lessons than it took on my part to pay for them, but the only thing I shall ask in return is to see an admiring audience at your feet. It does not have to be at Covent Garden, or even at the King’s Theatre or Drury Lane, but I want to be there when the rest of the world derives as much pleasure from your singing as I have. But please”—he gestured again toward the seat by the fire—“now that you are here, tell me how you found Signor Bartoli. Is he truly the ogre he appears to be?”

  At last Isobel took the proffered ch
air, her brow wrinkled in thought. “No, I do not think so, at least he was very kind to me. In the beginning I found him rather alarming, but once the lesson began he was everything that was helpful and encouraging.”

  “Ah, but that is because you are a gifted musician and, therefore, worth his while; to me he was an ogre the entire time. Like you, he considers me a useless fribble at best, at the worst, an uncultivated barbarian.”

  “What? I have never said such a thing.”

  “No, for you are too well mannered, but you certainly thought it.”

  “Why I never...” Isobel paused self-consciously, remembering their first encounter in the music room at Warminster House and how annoyed she had been.

  Christian grinned. “Precisely. And Signor Bartoli has exactly the same opinion. But now that I have demonstrated my taste by sending such a treasure his way, he will think better of me next time.”

  “I am not a treasure.” Isobel felt her cheeks grow warm again. Would she never stop allowing the man to disconcert her? It was most unnerving. She was never ruffled in such a way by the Comte de Pontarlier or the Chevalier d’Entremont, people whose opinion of her did not matter in the slightest. But with this man to whom it was imperative that she demonstrate her independence and cool self-reliance, she was forever being caught off guard. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to get beneath the serene facade she worked so carefully to maintain.

  “You and I both know that that is not true or Signor Bartoli would not have wasted an instant of his precious time on you.”

  The tense lines of Isobel’s face softened and she smiled as she remembered the music teacher’s words. “He did say that I made Mozart fresh and new for him again,” she acknowledged softly.

  “Ah.” Christian was unprepared for the odd sense of pride that washed over him. He almost felt like a damned father watching his son take his first fence. He had not realized until this moment how very anxious he had been over the entire thing, how he had been longing to find out what had happened during Isobel’s lesson with the crusty music master. It had been a long time, a very long time, since he had experienced such a sense of gratification as he was experiencing now. And it had been even longer ago that he had shared something with somebody in this special way—not since Mark. Not since Mark had he allowed himself to be so closely involved in someone else’s life, in someone else’s hopes and dreams. Not since Mark had he truly had hopes and dreams of his own. Now he did. He wanted to see Mademoiselle Isobel take her rightful place among the Catalanis, the Grassinis, the Mrs. Billingtons of the world. “Then you have done well indeed, for from what I saw of the man, I would say that he is not one to lavish praise or interest unless it is well deserved. And is he worthy of his reputation? How did you find his teaching?”

  “Oh, he is very good, more quick, I think, than Monsieur Verbier, who was a wonderful musician, but not as good a teacher. He could tell me what I was doing wrong, but not how to correct it. Signor Bartoli sees my weaknesses in an instant and tells me how to work on them. It is truly remarkable. You have no notion how exciting it is.”

  “You are satisfied, then? He was not too critical?” There was no need to ask, the glow in her eyes was proof enough of her pleasure and her enthusiasm. Odd how simple it had been to make her so happy.

  “Oh yes, I am. If he were not critical, then I should not trust him to help me improve.”

  How different she was from other women, who demanded that he make their lives easier and more luxurious. She scorned the luxuries yet welcomed the opportunity he had given her that actually gave her more work, even while it expanded her chances for achieving her goal.

  Occupied by these thoughts, Christian was silent for a moment, his gaze fixed upon her in such a way that Isobel wondered at it, and pulling on her gloves rather self-consciously, she rose. “I have kept you far too long. Indeed, I only meant to leave the payment of my debt with your servant, but...” Her voice trailed off.

  Christian rose as well, though reluctantly. He was strangely loath to let her leave. He had missed seeing her at Warminster House, though he had not known how much until this moment. He wanted to beg her to stay awhile longer or, at the very least, to ask her when he would see her again, but he knew she would take instant exception to it. He followed her to the door. “I do hope you continue to enjoy your lessons. You must let me know if there is anything more I can do.”

  “You have done more than enough already. But I do wish you would let me ...”

  Christian took one gloved hand and raised it gently to his lips. “Believe me, your happiness is all the payment I ask.”

  Isobel paused, transfixed by the look in his eyes. His voice was low and soft as a caress and she could feel the warmth of his lips on her hand through her gloves. A lump rose in her throat and the fluttery feeling invaded her stomach again. They were so close she could feel his breath on her cheek and it felt as though he were kissing her lips rather than her hand. Almost unconsciously she swayed closer to him, trying to read the expression in the gray-green eyes fixed so intently on her. She had the oddest urge to pull off her glove and trace the hard, square line of his jaw to feel the strength of him.

  Isobel gulped. What was she doing? She had come to repay her debt to this man, to rid herself of all obligation to him so that she would never have to see him again, and now she was practically falling into his arms. She drew a long, shaky breath, retrieved her hand, and smoothed her gloves. “Thank you,” she whispered. She turned and almost ran out the door and down the steps, not even stopping to catch her breath when she gained the street. It was not until she reached Berkeley Square that Isobel slowed her rapid pace.

  She must have been mad to call on him, and even more mad to allow him to invite her in. Isobel turned into Bond Street and slowed to a properly sedate pace. She should abide by Lord Christian’s wish and forget about trying to repay him since her one attempt to do so had caused her to lose all sense of propriety. She would forget about repaying him, in fact, she would forget about Lord Christian altogether, in spite of the gnawing sense of emptiness she felt at such a prospect.

  Isobel drew a deep breath. It was time to concentrate on her singing, forget about everything else. Her music had always sustained her in the past. It would sustain her now. But oddly enough, she did not feel as comforted by that thought as she always had in the past.

  Chapter 16

  While Isobel was striving to put all thought of Lord Christian Hatherleigh from her mind, he was striving mightily to recall every tiny detail of their encounter as he stretched his long legs in front of the fireplace. What was it about her that affected him so strongly? She was beautiful, but all the women he had ever enjoyed had been beautiful. She was passionate, but most of the women he had known had been passionate. She was intelligent, and a few, very few, women with whom he had been intimate were intelligent. It was more than any one of these, and it was more than the combination of all of them, but something more rare, that drew him to her.

  He smiled as he gazed into the embers, remembering the light in her eyes and the glow of her skin as she insisted on handing him the money to pay for her lessons. There was a special intensity about Isobel that set her apart from everyone else. She believed in things. She wanted to accomplish things in her life, and Christian wanted fervently to help her do so. But it was the very spirit he admired in her that kept her from allowing him to help, and it was this very spirit that would make her succeed with, or without, his help.

  That was it; he admired her in the truest sense of the word, admired her in a way that he had not admired anyone since his boyhood when he had followed Potts the coachman around constantly, or certainly not since Wellington, who had been simply Wellesley at the time, had repulsed Victor’s army at Talavera, and won the esteem of Christian and every other soldier.

  There was a fire in Isobel de Montargis that warmed his soul, a fire he had once had, but seemed to have lost in the long period of suffering and brutality of war. He ached
to pull her into his arms, to hold her slender body close, to him, to caress the smooth oval of her face and touch the softness of her cheeks, to ... What did he want? These were dangerous grounds, and at the moment, Christian was not entirely sure he wanted to explore them.

  He grabbed the decanter of brandy from the table beside him and splashed it into the glass sitting on the silver tray next to it. Tossing it off quickly, he concentrated on the trickle of warmth down his throat. He set down the empty glass and rose, grabbed a sheet of paper from his desk drawer, scrawled a few lines asking Blanche to join him for supper or, at the very least, to allow him to call on her. Sealing it, he rang for Digby.

  “My lord?” The batman appeared almost before Christian had removed his hand from the bellpull.

  “Please see that this gets to Mademoiselle Desmoulins.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Digby took the note, hurrying out of the room with a haste that had more to do with his efforts to conceal any possible reactions that he might betray than with an eagerness to do his master’s bidding. If Lord Christian were to see his face, Digby knew that he would read the disappointment in it, for the note to Mademoiselle Desmoulins seemed to negate any interest in the intriguing young lady who had just called on Lord Christian. The batman found it odd how quickly the note to the actress followed the departure of the unexpected visitor, which suggested that in some way there was a connection between the two things, but what was the connection?

  Even if he had been willing to explain it. Lord Christian could not have told his servant what had prompted him to write the note to Blanche. It was not until many hours later, as he emerged from her discreetly elegant house in Marylebone that he knew himself what had driven him to seek her out. But now, as her door closed behind him, he was well aware that what he had hoped would happen had not. Even as he drew in the first refreshing breath of the cool night air, he wondered whether Isobel had confided in anyone else about her lesson. Yes, he admitted to himself, he had thrown himself into Blanche’s seductive white arms to wipe all thoughts of Isobel from his mind.