Eva’s voice jolted Amara out of a very pleasant reverie. ‘Whatever makes you say that?’ she asked, blushing furiously.
‘Ah, I thought as much, and I don’t blame you in the least. He is very…attentive.’
They both laughed.
‘You are supposed to warn me away from such men. I dare say he is the most terrible rogue who has disreputable intentions, and my virtue is in imminent danger.’
Eva grinned. ‘I am not a very good chaperone, am I? But still, it is beyond time that you had a little fun, and I see no harm in it.’
‘I do like him, how could I not? It’s comforting to have a friend who understands the workings of the prince’s court. He has already saved me from committing several faux pas. And he makes me laugh. But don’t worry, Eva, I am also a realist.’
‘We shall see.’
‘I worry that it will only be a matter of time before Claus Lykaios finds us here in this house,’ Amara said, thinking it wise to change the subject. Her feelings for Mr Harland were complex. She didn’t understand them herself, and wasn’t ready to discuss them, not even with Eva, from whom she kept few secrets.
Eva shuddered. ‘Don’t talk to me about that vile man.’
‘We were deceived by his intentions, there’s no denying it. I thought when he joined forces with you and helped persuade Papa to let me come to England that he really did have my best interests at heart. Now it transpires that he is a sorry excuse for an agent, a man with no morals. He is nothing more than Papa’s lackey, sent here to spy on our every move and to…well, we both know what he attempted to do to you; the odious man!’
‘We are well enough protected here, my dear,’ Eva said. ‘The landlady has strict instructions not to allow anyone past the threshold without our prior permission, and the prince will send a carriage for us when we are required at his pavilion. Would you have preferred us to stay there?’
Would she? The offer had been made but Amara had heard wild stories about the goings-on that took place beneath the prince’s roof. She hadn’t seen anything other than impeccable behaviour in her limited dealings with the heir to the British throne, albeit in a more liberal society than Athens, but then anything would be. She hadn’t set foot inside the prince’s pavilion here in Brighton yet, but was curious about it and unsure what to expect. From the outside it looked like a contradiction of Eastern styles. She had heard that the interior was opulent. She had also heard it described as a pleasure palace, where the prince entertained a string of mistresses.
Her heart skipped a beat when she recalled that Mr Harland would be calling in a short while to take them on a guided tour that afternoon. She was looking forward to it a little too much, and knew that adjuring herself to remain distant and keep him at arm’s length would be an exercise in futility.
She thought of her father, then dismissed him from her mind. She would put her own pleasures first for once and allow the consequences to take care of themselves.
‘I think we are better settled here in this house,’ Amara said in a contemplative tone, ‘even if in some respects it feels more like a prison.’
‘I know you are keen to explore the pleasures of Brighton, and I’m sure we shall be able to do so as soon as the weather improves.’ Eva rolled her eyes. ‘If it ever does.’
Amara nodded. She suspected that her aunt knew it was not just the weather that kept her indoors, but also the fear of encountering Claus Lykaios again. Amara had dismissed Claus as her agent when she walked in to find Eva fighting off his advances, making an enemy out of him in the process. She didn’t have the slightest doubt that he would have written to her father with exaggerated accounts of Amara’s behaviour, blaming Eva for encouraging her rebellion—a rebellion that he himself would claim to have discouraged.
He knew what to expect if he defied her powerful father and allowed her to perform for a man whom he disliked intently, despite never having been introduced to the prince himself. He would place the blame on Eva, Amara suspected, simply to gain revenge and to salve his wounded pride following her rejection of his advances.
Amara shuddered. How could she ever have supposed that he’d had her best interests at heart? All he cared about was lining his own pockets, ingratiating himself with Papa and taking advantage of helpless females. Unfortunately for him, he had underestimated Eva’s determination to protect herself from unwanted advances—although perhaps, in hindsight, it had been unnecessary for Amara to clout him over the head with a vase. Eva had, she assured Amara afterwards, been perfectly capable of fending him off without any outside help.
‘You are not yourself, my dear,’ Eva said. ‘I know you are worrying about your father’s reaction. I can always tell; you get a certain look about you. But don’t worry, even your father wouldn’t provoke a diplomatic incident by snatching you away when you are here as a guest of the prince.’
Would he not? Amara wasn’t so sure. ‘Take no notice of me. The persistent rain must be dampening my spirits. Well, that and having to perform in front of the prince and his guests tomorrow evening. We both have to do that.’
‘I shall merely be accompanying you on the pianoforte. No one will notice me the moment you open your mouth and sing like an angel. You took Covent Garden by storm and the prince’s guests will be equally enchanted.’
‘That was different in many respects. I could ignore the sea of faces and lose myself in the music. Tomorrow will be a more intimate affair, and I really don’t want the prince to regret engaging my services and send me home.’ Amara flapped her hands. ‘I know I must return eventually and pay for my disobedience, but I would prefer to do so from a position of relative strength.’
Eva gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Just be yourself, give full vent to your emotions and your voice will carry you through. You have performed for your father’s friends often enough and received nothing but praise for your efforts.’
‘And a dozen proposals,’ Amara added, grimacing.
‘Well there’s no help for that, and you should have become accustomed to being admired by now. Not only are you exquisitely beautiful, but you are also from one of the most respected families in Athens and you sing like a siren. Of course gentlemen will clamour for your attention. You should enjoy the acclaim whilst it lasts.’
Amara twitched her nose. ‘Is that what happened to you? One imagines it still happens. Your beauty defines you, and you are a wealthy widow with impeccable connections.’
‘Why do you think I was so keen to come to England with you?’
Amara smiled. ‘And there was I thinking it was for the pleasure of my company.’
Eva hugged Amara. ‘You know very well that I adore you. You are the daughter I never had and I couldn’t be prouder of your courage in standing up to your father. Not many people get away with defying my brother.’
‘True.’ Amara flashed a wry smile. ‘And I am unlikely to be the first since Papa will have the final word.’
‘Perhaps that will not happen this time.’
‘And perhaps the moon is made of cheese, just as you assured me was the case when I was a child.’
‘You had so many questions,’ Eva replied, smiling fondly, ‘and I ran out of plausible answers long before your seventh birthday.’
‘Do you regret not having children, Eva?’
‘In some respects I suppose I do, but my marriage was not a happy one, and Demetri would not have made a sympathetic father.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘Anyway, these things are in the lap of the gods, and it clearly wasn’t meant to be.’
‘There is still time for you.’
Eva shook her head. ‘I shall not marry again—certainly not just because I would like children of my own. I shall just have to make do with you.’
Amara laughed, wondering not for the first time what had happened to sour Eva’s marriage. She had seemed desperately in love with Demetri, but things had quickly deteriorated and Eva had lost her sparkle. Now, at last, she appeared to be more like the fun loving au
nt she recalled from her youth. It had felt as though she brought the sunshine with her into her childhood home, where her father had ruled with a rod of iron and no one ever seemed to smile much.
Amara had looked forward to those visits when Eva had played the piano until her fingers cramped so that Amara could practise her voice training. Amara loved her aunt unconditionally, owed her a very great deal and would respect her privacy. But if ever she decided to break her silence on the subject of her doomed marriage, Amara would be more than ready to listen.
‘Come along, my dear.’ Eva clapped her hands. ‘It’s later than I thought. We just have time to change before Mr Harland comes to collect us.’ Eva grinned. ‘I dare say you will want to look your best for him.’
‘Oh do stop it!’ Amara chided, but she was smiling as she ran up the stairs and called to Cora, her maid who had accompanied her from Athens and who catered for both her and Eva while they were in England. She was an older woman, a distant poor relation of Papa’s whom Amara despised and didn’t trust. But the choice she had been given of taking Cora with her or not coming to England had been no choice at all.
‘There’s little we can do about keeping to their routine in these conditions,’ the prince’s trainer told Louis Harland. ‘The horses will run, right enough, but we won’t get a true idea of their speed when they have to plough fetlock deep through mud. But still, it’s the same for us all.’
‘It will make for interesting results on race day, one assumes,’ Louis replied, patting the prince’s best horse on his elegant neck and casting an eye over his gleaming coat. ‘Mandrake looks fit enough, in any event.’
‘Oh aye, he’s in top form and raring to go. We just don’t know how good the opposition will be, that’s the problem.’
Louis checked his watch. Ordinarily he could talk horses with such a font of equine knowledge all day. But on this particular day he had somewhere he needed to be. He’d been looking forward to the engagement and had no intention of keeping the lady waiting.
‘Well, I shall send a glowing report to the prince and keep my fingers crossed for the race.’
‘That’s about all we can do.’
The two men shook hands. Louis then returned to his carriage and directed his coachman to Miss Kazan’s address. The conveyance made slow progress through a steady downpour and clogged streets full of miserable people attempting to go about their daily lives and make an honest living. Of the gentry, upon whom they relied during the summer season for the living in question, there was no sign. God forbid that they should get their feet wet.
Louis fell to contemplating about the lady who occupied far too many of his conscious thoughts. He had been a member of the prince’s party when she sang at Covent Garden and was captivated from the moment she opened her mouth and her achingly pure voice filled the auditorium with its crystal clear resonance and pitch-perfect rendition of a Mozart aria.
The prince had gone backstage, where Miss Kazan was presented to him. Louis had prepared himself for disappointment, expecting to be confronted by a self-confident female who condescended to accept the praise heaped upon her by an adoring public. Instead, he found himself in the presence of a young woman who was painfully shy and self-effacing. Her aunt protected her as best she could, but it was the agent—a cove whom Louis instantly took in dislike—who put himself forward and seemed happy to accept all the accolades bestowed upon Miss Kazan in her stead.
His attitude at the time was little more than irritating. Given that Miss Kazan was Greek and had led a relatively sheltered life, he was frankly surprised to discover that she had so few people to protect her interests. He suspected from first impressions that the aunt’s presence was welcome. The agent’s considerably less so, but he didn’t spare it more than a passing thought since his attention was completely taken up by Miss Kazan’s quite exquisite and unspoiled beauty.
Black hair, smooth and glossy as a raven’s wing, framed a heart-shaped face defined by elfin features, a retroussé nose and high cheekbones delightfully tinged with pink. Her wide green eyes, shaded by delicately winged brows, met his gaze and lingered on his profile for a protracted moment as she listened to a remark addressed to her by the prince.
Louis was a lost cause from that moment onwards. Common sense told him that he must be one of thousands of her admirers. Anyone admitted to her presence and enjoyed the privilege of hearing her sweet voice soaring to the rafters would be bound to fall beneath her thrall. Louis was one of her many devotees, but content to watch her success from the sidelines.
Safer that way.
The English and Greeks were already at one another’s throats over those damned marbles. Louis understood horses but knew precious little about international politics, and that was the way he would prefer for it to stay. But when the prince asked him to arrange for her to perform at Carlton House, automatically assuming she would accept the invitation, he wondered if fate had intervened, ensuring that his path would cross constantly with Miss Kazan’s whether he liked it or not.
He liked it a little too much.
As ever, Prinny hadn’t stopped to think that the invitation might give the Greeks further cause to resent England’s high-handedness, and probably wouldn’t have cared much even if he had. What Prinny wanted, Prinny inevitably got and he left it to others to deal with the consequences.
Louis was master of the prince’s horses, but George knew of his love for and knowledge of music and often asked him to procure artists to entertain his guests, which is how he had come to know Miss Kazan better. His initial impression that she lacked confidence was quickly proven correct, and he was glad to provide a shoulder when she began to lean on him for advice. She and her aunt asked him myriad questions. Miss Kazan seemed excited by the opportunity of performing for the prince—but the agent, surprisingly, was gruff and uncooperative. A Greek of about forty, he took a proprietorial interest in Miss Kazan which Louis found offensive. Instead of revelling in the honour of the prince’s invitation, he seemed put out by it, and Louis sensed that he would have found a way to refuse on Miss Kazan’s behalf if she had not overridden his concerns.
Lykaios kept speaking about their other obligations, causing Louis to wonder if the prince’s demands would put Miss Kazan in a difficult position with her family. He resolved to speak with her himself and found an opportunity to do so one day when Lykaios had briefly left the two ladies alone when they were still in London.
‘If you would prefer not to perform for the prince,’ he said softly, ‘I shall find a way to excuse you from the engagement.’
She blinked her beautiful eyes at him, apparently surprised by the suggestion. ‘Why do you imagine I would prefer to avoid such an honour?’ she asked in the lilting voice that he could listen to all day. A voice as smooth as velvet and as melodic as a sonata.
‘I got the impression that we are delaying your return to Greece.’
‘Mr Lykaios doubtless gave you that idea.’ It was the aunt, Mrs Costas, who responded, and she did so with impatience. ‘Amara does not answer to him and I can assure you that she will be delighted to oblige the prince.’
‘I am conscious of the honour, sir,’ Miss Kazan added softly, ‘and I hope I can live up to his expectations.’
‘Having been granted the privilege of hearing you,’ Louis replied, ‘I have absolutely no doubts on that score.’
Her infectious and enticing smile were Louis’ undoing and he became a slave to her protection from that moment onwards. Following her superb performance at Carlton House, the prince’s offer of an engagement in Brighton for the entire summer was met with an outright refusal by the agent. Miss Kazan, however, had stood her ground and insisted upon accepting.
Louis had no idea what struggles ensued behind closed doors, but he did discover that Miss Kazan had subsequently dispensed with the agent’s services. Louis had been relieved, assuming that the man would return to Greece and that they wouldn’t be troubled by him again. It was only later that he reali
sed the naïveté of that aspiration.
Miss Kazan’s father was rich and influential and would blame Lykaios if his daughter outstayed her time in England, so it stood to reason he must still be loitering close at hand, hoping to impress upon his former charge the inadvisability of disobedience. Miss Kazan had been withdrawn since her arrival in Brighton, and Louis wondered if that was because Lykaios had been causing problems for her.
Today he fully intended to find out.
The carriage rattled to a halt outside Miss Kazan’s abode, the horses’ backs shiny from the soaking they had endured. They stamped their hooves, their bridles jangling as they shook their heads and plumes of breath billowed from their nostrils. Louis pulled his hat low, alighted from the conveyance and rapped at the door. His knock was answered by the landlady, but Miss Kazan and Mrs Costas appeared directly behind her, suitably dressed for the conditions.
‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ he said, smiling at them both. ‘I apologise for the filthy weather, but I hope it will not spoil your enjoyment of the afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Harland,’ Miss Kazan replied, smiling up at him from beneath the wide brim of a pretty bonnet. ‘I am becoming accustomed to your British rain, and can assure you that I shall not give it a passing thought.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
He offered them an arm each and escorted them the few steps from their door to his carriage. The wind tore at the brim of Miss Kazan’s bonnet and she laughed, clutching it to her head with the hand not resting on his arm. The groom jumped down from behind and held the carriage door open for them. Miss Kazan thanked him as Louis handed first her and then her aunt into the conveyance. He climbed in behind them, brushing rainwater from the shoulders of his coat, and the carriage moved off.
Several people had gathered to gawp at the equipage, despite the rain, perhaps because the horses were of such high quality. Louis had become accustomed to such situations, but Miss Kazan seemed alarmed by it and he noticed her closely scanning the crowd. She gave a little gasp and when Louis followed the direction of her gaze he noticed Lykaios standing on the edge of the throng, glowering at the carriage.
Amara (Carlton House Cartel Book 2) Page 3
