My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

Isobel smiled fondly at the old servant. “I know, Marthe, I know. I shall try to live up to your standards, but I fear I can never be as lovely as Mama.”

  “Not so beautiful, perhaps, but you have more spirit. And that espieglerie will turn more heads than her beauty. She was like a delicate flower, too delicate for this abominable climate.” Marthe sighed gustily, and pausing with her needle in midair, blinked rapidly before continuing. “But you, ma petite, you have that certain something that makes everyone take notice of you. Rest assured, even among all those English ladies at the opera, you will be the one the gentlemen pay attention to.”

  “But I have no interest in gentlemen noticing me.”

  “Bah. Every woman cares, and so should you. Perhaps that handsome English milord ...”

  “I told you, I have no interest in any gentlemen,” Isobel responded firmly, but even in the dim light, Marthe could see the faint blush that rose to her mistress’s cheeks and she knew, with the intuition of an old family retainer, that that precise thought had already crossed her mistress’s mind.

  Chapter 18

  Entering the Barford’s box at the opera the next evening, Isobel was grateful that Marthe’s sharp eyes were not there to observe her scanning the other boxes. She told herself that she was looking to see if the Duke and Duchess of Warminster were there or if Lord Christian Hatherleigh was as much a connoisseur of the musical world as he claimed to be, but deep in her heart she knew that she just wanted to see him again. Catching a glint of candlelight on rich auburn hair, she hastily pulled into the sheltering darkness of the Barfords’ box before he could look in her direction.

  Although she hated herself for caring at all, Isobel was pleased to see that Lord Christian was quite alone. Then he truly did come to the opera for the music. He had not been deceiving her with false claims. It was not until the wave of relief washed over her at this discovery that Isobel realized how important it was to her to have him be honest with her about such a thing.

  However, even as she was observing Lord Christian, a rather military-looking gentleman with a woman on each arm entered the box and claimed his attention.

  “There, see, I told you that all the women were mad for Lord Christian Hatherleigh,” Emily hissed at her elbow. “Look at them, both of them flirting with him outrageously. Why the gentleman escorting them might just as well not exist for all the attention they are paying him.”

  Christian, however, was more delighted to see the gentleman than the ladies. “Solly, you old dog, when did you get back in town? And how is old Douro now that Boney’s beaten?” He greeted one of Wellington’s former aides-de-camp enthusiastically.

  “Now, now,” the pert little brunette on Major Lord Solverton’s right arm wagged a coquettish finger at Christian. “The war is over, there is to be none of that talk. It is time you military gentlemen began to pay attention to the ladies again.”

  “Yes,” her companion, a statuesque blonde agreed in a throaty voice. “But after making war against men you may need a great deal of practice learning how to make love to women.” She eyed him hungrily as she licked her full lower lip. “Do let us sit down, Solly. The opera will be so much more interesting from here.” She smiled suggestively at Christian as she sank down on the chair next to him and leaned toward him in such a way as to reveal her décolletage to its fullest extent. “Solverton tells me that all he did during the war was run errands for the generals. What did you do? I am sure it was much more interesting.”

  “Though he was better known for his reckless courage and fine horsemanship than for his mental abilities, Lord Solverton was clever enough to perceive that Christian’s eyes kept straying to the stage and the orchestra that was tuning up in the pit. He winked conspiratorially at his friend as he held out his arms to lead his two companions out of the box. “Come along, girls, Christian likes to keep his music and his women separate. Perhaps we can convince him to join us for a snug little supper later.”

  Christian grinned. “Perhaps.” But once the performance began, he forgot entirely about Lord Solverton and his companions. As he listened intently to the performers he kept picturing Isobel on the stage in front of him. Surely her voice was truer and sweeter than that of Miss Stephens. Or was he being too partial? He wondered how his protégée was progressing in her lessons with Signor Bartoli. It had been difficult to think up excuses to appear along Saint Martin’s Street, but he had come up with enough to pass by the music master’s door once or twice in the past few days, but to no avail. Signor Bartoli’s most recently acquired pupil was not to be seen entering or exiting, nor anywhere in between Saint Martin’s Street and Manchester Square. The more he failed to encounter Mademoiselle Isobel, the more obsessed Christian became with seeing her, so much so that he began to imagine he saw her in every tall, slim woman he saw in Bond Street or strolling in Hyde Park. He even began to think that it was she in the box opposite his, leaning forward intently to listen to the music while her companions whispered to one another in the background.

  Christian edged forward to get a closer look, but the woman, apparently sensing his interest in her, drew back hastily into the shadows. He must have been mistaken, for surely Mademoiselle de Montargis would have acknowledged him in some way. Or would she?

  Isobel could have kicked herself for becoming so interested in the music that she forgot everything and leaned forward, her elbows propped on the edge of the box, and gave herself up to the pleasures of the music. It was not until a sudden movement in the box across from her distracted her attention from the stage that she realized the occupant was studying her closely. With a stifled gasp she pulled back. The less she saw of Lord Christian Hatherleigh, the better. The mere sight of him set her heart pounding uncomfortably as she recalled the warmth of his lips on her gloved hand and the look in his eyes the last time she had seen him.

  Those eyes had seemed to warm as he had looked at her, sending a secret message meant just for her. Undoubtedly she had been mistaken, undoubtedly he adopted that same intimate air with every woman, and therein lay the devastating attraction for which, according to Jane and Emily, he was famous. Certainly it had seemed to captivate the two women who had just visited him in his box. Isobel had not been close enough to read anyone’s expression, but from the way the blonde had practically thrown herself at him, Isobel could well imagine the approval in his eyes. She grew uncomfortably warm herself recalling the way he had looked her up and down that first day in the Duke of Warminster’s music room. It had made her breathless and given her the oddest sensation as though she were standing before him dressed in nothing but her chemise, or, perhaps, not even that.

  “Why, Isobel”—Emily leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “I do believe Lord Christian has recognized you. He appears to be looking in this direction. If you but nod to him, perhaps he will call on us after this act.”

  “I most certainly shall not do anything so vulgar or so forward. I told you, I have barely met the man.” In her annoyance, Isobel forgot to lower her voice.

  Jane turned around in some surprise. It was very unlike their usually self-possessed friend to be so vehement. Meeting her sister’s mischievous glance, she frowned and shook her head ever so slightly. If Isobel de Montargis wished to have nothing to do with Lord Christian Hatherleigh, then it was up to them to respect her wishes.

  Emily sighed and leaned back in her chair. Jane could be such a spoilsport sometimes. It was as plain as pikestaff that Isobel was more aware of the Duke of Warminster’s brother than she let on, for more than once her eyes had strayed toward his Warminsters’ box and she had appeared uncharacteristically agitated since Emily had called attention to Lord Christian and his visitors.

  A sly little smile crept across her face as Emily glanced again at their guest. Jane might have interfered for the moment now, but she, Emily, was not going to give up this intriguing line of investigation. She would just have to proceed more carefully. If Isobel was not going to acknowledge Lord Christian when it was obv
ious that she was interested in him, why Emily was going to have to make sure that they came across him some other way. Yes, Emily’s smile broadened, she was just going to have to take Isobel about with her more—to Bond Street, to the park, all the places where encounters with members of the ton, such as Lord Christian, were unavoidable.

  However, it was not Emily, but the Countess of Morehampton who was responsible for the next meeting between Isobel and Lord Christian. Knowing, from his attendance at the vocal concerts at the Hanover Square Rooms that Lord Christian was a devote of fine music, the countess made sure to include him in the invitations to her musicale, for which Signor Bartoli had promised to provide a new performer who could be counted upon to impress her audience.

  Greeting Isobel and her teacher before the guests began arriving, the countess had been somewhat surprised by the young lady’s proud bearing and her air of quiet elegance. In fact, she confided to Signor Bartoli as Isobel went off to a corner of the room to review her music, she looked more like a guest than a performer.

  “Do not be deceived by Mademoiselle Isobel,” the music master reassured his patroness, “she may look to be a gently born young lady, for she is, after all, the Duc de Montargis’s daughter, but she is first and foremost a musician and an artist of great power and agility as you will see.”

  “If you say that about her,” the countess wheezed, her ample bosom heaving under the confines of her tight, green satin corsage, “then she must be outstanding indeed, for your taste is the most exacting. But now I must leave you, for it is time to meet my guests.” She opened her fan and waved it vigorously in front of her flushed face for several minutes, then snapped it shut, pushed one damp curl into place under her imposing turban, and proceeded majestically across the room, looking like nothing so much as a battleship under full sail.

  Signor Bartoli returned to his pupil, who was reading her music and humming beneath her breath. “Come, let us get into the anteroom and procure a glass of lemonade that the countess has so kindly set out for us. Besides, it would not do for you to be seen by the guests as you are to be the chief attraction and a surprise.”

  “But, signor, how can I possibly be an attraction with Signor Tramezzani and Madame Bertinotti on the program. With the two of them preceding me, I wonder that I dare open my mouth.”

  “Do not worry. Bertinotti and Tramezzani do well because they are together, but you have power and range that neither one of them can hope to equal. Trust me, my child, we have chosen music that will provide a contrast to what the other musicians have to offer. Compared to you they will .appear stale, and this audience is always in search of something new.”

  Indeed, when the Countess of Morehampton, hastily wiping a perspiring brow, stood before her guests after the two singers had finished, an expectant buzz of conversation flowed around the room. The countess clapped her hands for silence and the buzz died to a hush of anticipation. “I have confided to many of you that I am introducing someone entirely new to our musical scene.” The countess paused for effect, relishing every minute of suspense. For someone who had no looks, no grace, and not a great deal of conversation, she relied on her musical taste and the fortune that allowed her to produce such evenings as her only claims to the attention of the fashionable word and she exploited them to the fullest. “She is new not only to this musical scene, but to any musical scene, as she has just been discovered by that well-known cognoscente of musical talent. Signor Bartoli.”

  Not the cognoscente. Signor Bartoli, but the connoisseur, Lord Christian Hatherleigh was Christian’s first thought as Isobel, regal and poised in her exquisitely simple gown of pink satin, gracefully acknowledged the welcoming applause. But all thought was quickly banished from his mind as he waited tensely to judge the crowd’s reaction.

  There was the usual continued whispering as Signor Bartoli played the opening bars of “The Soldier Tir’d” which ceased almost entirely as the first liquid notes spilled forth from Isobel’s throat. The countess’s audience, though genuinely interested in music, were first and foremost members of the ton, and it would take a great deal of talent to stop the delicious exchange of scandalous on-dits, even during a performance.

  Isobel finished the song to enthusiastic applause, which, blue eyes sparkling, she accepted charmingly. As she launched into “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth,” the whispering stopped completely, and by the time she began the first notes of “Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen” the silence was so profound that the measured breathing of the dowager seated next to Christian sounded almost deafening.

  As her voice soared brilliantly to the highest notes, Christian was transported to the music room at Warminster House and the afternoons he had sat gazing into the garden, the pale winter sun gleaming on the parquet floor, and he was struck by a pang of nostalgia which he could not explain until after the concert when the well-wishers and admirers made an impenetrable throng around Isobel and he caught the words “brilliant, exquisite, incomparable,” all the words he had used to describe her to Signor Bartoli. And now she was no longer his private secret. She belonged to everyone and anyone who could appreciate music, and even those who could not. It was sharing her with the rest of the world that was responsible for the odd sense of loss he was now suffering. He longed to throttle the young buck at his elbow who remarked to a friend. “What a voice! And with a face and figure like that, she will make Catalani look to her laurels. The elegance of her shoulders and arms alone are enough to make a man lose his senses.”

  With a barely concealed snort of disgust, Christian turned away and headed toward the supper room. The less he heard of this fawning cant, the better. What he needed most was a bracing glass of something—several bracing glasses, to be exact.

  The supper room was deserted except for the footmen, who were delighted to provide his lordship with the countess’s excellent Madeira. Christian tossed off one glass and then slowly sipped the next, savoring its fumes while trying to decide on his next step. Should he return and join the crowd of well-wishers or should he simply leave?

  Instinct, tested by years of fashionable gatherings, told him to leave, that he would find no satisfaction now that the music was over, but something else held him there. It seemed so long since he had last seen Isobel, in spite of his best efforts to cross her path. He wanted to know how she felt about this evening’s success, what she was planning to do next, how he could help her take the next step toward her goal.

  “My lord, I had no notion that something as tame as a musicale could interest a hero of the Peninsula,” a silvery voice interrupted his thoughts. Christian turned to see Lady Selina Atwood tripping eagerly toward him. He groaned inwardly. She must have set her sights on him during the concert and worked out her strategy accordingly because no one else seemed to be in any hurry to enter the supper room.

  “Mama is a dear friend of the Countess of Morehampton so our attendance was unavoidable, though I was dying to attend Lady Southbridge’s rout instead. But now I am delighted that we came.” The young lady bit her lower lip and fixed him with a provocative look from under pale eyelashes.

  Christian struggled to hide his dismay. Surely society had not changed so much since he had been away that it was proper for young misses to stalk single gentlemen in the supper room? Apparently not, for before he could reply to Lady Selina, another voice boomed from the doorway, “Well, it is Lord Christian, is it not?” and Lady Selina’s mother, resplendent in a diamond parure that overshadowed her dress of outmoded design, sailed into the room in pursuit of her daughter. “It is so gratifying to see that modern youth still has an appreciation of fine music. So many young men are quite worthless these days and do nothing but closet themselves with their tailors or waste their time and their fortunes at the gaming tables. But you, young man”—she delivered an approving buffet to Christian’s shoulder that nearly caused him to lose his footing—“appear to be different.”

  “So it would seem,” Christian responded meekly. “But
I have not had the opportunity to congratulate the countess on the success of her evening. It would be most remiss of me not to. Please excuse me.” And feeling like the veriest of cowards, Christian escaped back to the ballroom, where the crowd around Isobel appeared to be dwindling.

  Glancing up at this particular moment, Isobel felt her stomach lurch as she caught sight of a broad-shouldered figure in the doorway. So he had been here after all. At first she had been concentrating so hard on the music that she had no thought for the audience, but as the silence descended and she knew that she had captured everyone’s attention, she had surveyed the room in front of her. She told herself that she was just getting a feel for those listening to her, but in her heart of hearts, she knew that she was really looking for one listener in particular, one auburn head that would tower above the rest, but she had not seen it. He must have been over to one side or too far back for her to make out.

  Now he was here, approaching her purposefully, a conspiratorial smile on his face that somehow made it feel as though he and she were the only two occupants of the entire room. Isobel smiled and nodded mechanically to the hatchet-faced lady speaking to her. She could barely make out the woman’s words over the pounding of her heart. Her palms felt sweaty. What on earth was wrong with her? She had never suffered this nervous reaction before and she had sung many times for audiences at the gatherings at Madame de Sallanches’, even for the illustrious crowd at Monsieur’s formal dinners held on New Year’s Day, his Name Day, and the feast of Saint Louis. Why was she feeling agitated now?

  “Mademoiselle Isobel.” Warm with approval, Lord Christian’s voice was like a caress. Isobel’s knees threatened to buckle under her. She drew a long, steadying breath and lifted her chin. Agitated she might be, but she was certainly not going to let on that she felt anything, but coolly self-possessed.

  “Your performance was exquisite. The delivery was ...” Christian paused and cleared his throat. Even to his own ears his voice sounded unnaturally high, his praise as fulsome as that of any of her other admirers who sought to win the approval of the woman destined to be the ton’s newest sensation. “Er, your performance is precisely what I would have expected.”