No one but Saint-Cyr would have attempted to compete with these opulent surroundings, but the count met that challenge with the fervor of the peasants who stormed the Bastille. Just as the citizens loved France so much they were willing to destroy Her, so did Saint-Cyr regard the Palais Garnier.
Only to rebuild from the ground up.
As Alejandro looked about him, the similarity was striking. Le comte de Saint-Cyr’s opera box was completely lined in blood-red velvet from floor to ceiling. Flowers, satin pillows, and velvet cushions were in periwinkle blue, deep purples, silver, and gold—most in a disturbing striped pattern. The addition of Louis XVI antique furniture emphasized the fact that, if Maximilien Robespierre and Marie Antoinette’s ghosts were still in residence, they were letting their presence be known at the Palais Garnier.
Or, at least, in the count of Saint-Cyr’s box.
Vive la France! Vive la République! Vive la Résistance!
Situated in the red velvet-lined opera box, Alejandro searched the other elite boxes in vain for the woman in black. She was not one to blend into the background.
It was as if she had disappeared into thin air.
“Who are you looking for, Alejandro? Play a round of cards with us,” Valentinois insisted, his dark, melancholy looks adding an obsessive tone to his intensity.
“Excuse me? No one. Oh, yes, why not.”
Seated with him in the private box, his friends of many years chatted amiably, insisting on drawing him into the conversation. Out of duty, habit, or a failed attempt at the social graces, he knew not which, he acquiesced.
“Although this is her debut, the soprano is said to be phenomenal,” offered le comte de Saint-Cyr. “And beautiful,” he added with the sly smile of one who has advance information.
“She is young if it is her debut,” Alejandro remarked with a shrug as he reached for a card. Listening to their ensuing frivolous banter, he surmised that he would have gifted himself a towering kindness in remaining silent. “All young sopranos are beautiful.”
“I have a friend who observed her in rehearsal, and he was smitten beyond reason.”
“I always suspected that your grandfather was not only one of Napoleon’s nine guards but a spy as well, Comte.” Alejandro chuckled despite his mood. “You do your ancestor credit.”
Saint-Cyr’s deep-blue eyes brightened, his blond curls glistening around his face. He waved his lavender-gloved hand in false modesty. With the addition of the gold and rubies to Saint-Cyr’s attire, one had to admit that the effect was dazzling.
“In point of fact, Saint-Cyr’s grandfather would roll over in his grave were he to see him,” murmured Valentinois. There was a rumbling of laughter while Saint-Cyr feigned indignation.
“And what can you tell us about the opera besides the beautiful soprano?” asked Esteban, who never felt intimidated by Alejandro’s friends.
“The setting for Bizet’s opera is Madrid,” stated Gaston Leroux, a friend of Saint-Cyr’s.
“I trust it shall please you, Alejandro,” stated le duc de Valentinois, his serious tone in contrast to Saint-Cyr’s playfulness.
“Is the opera sung in Spanish?” inquired Alejandro disinterestedly.
“No, of course not,” replied Valentinois. “In French, to be sure.” Alejandro thought, not for the first time, that Valentinois might have presented a quite Byronesque appearance had he worn his hair a little longer rather than short and parted in the middle, as was the fashion of the day. The Duke was so dark and mysterious in his appearance that women were invariably drawn to him.
It was no matter—Valentinois had no desire to leave the bachelor state and seemed to enjoy nothing more than hunting, sporting, and being in the company of his friends. The impression of depth that his appearance gave was considerably misleading. Most notably disappointed were mamas in search of matrimonial partners for their daughters.
“An unfortunate choice for an opera set in Madrid. As it so happens, I am not pleased.” He felt annoyed but smiled amiably. He had agreed to attend, but feigning enthusiasm he found strangely difficult this evening.
“You are a master of English, French, and Italian, as well as Spanish,” stated Esteban. “You are in a position to overlook it, my friend. I trust it will pose no difficulty.”
“I could overlook it if the opera set in Spain were sang in Italian. That is, at least, the language of the Pope. But French?” He laughed at the absurdity of it. But he was far from amused. “The very fact that I am a man of education, as you point out, makes it difficult to overlook the art this city produces. Ave Maria. Have you seen that fellow Picasso’s work, Valentinois? That which Parisians produce with the considerable energy they exert is, to say the least, indefinable.”
“Picasso is Spanish,” stated Esteban without aplomb.
“True. He exhibited much promise before he came to Paris.” Alejandro threw a ten of spades on the table.
“He must have been a very boring sort of chap,” remarked Saint-Cyr with a toss of his blond curls.
“Are there no standards in Paris? Do we forget all that we have learned from centuries of masters, revert to our schoolroom days, and call it ‘art’? There is no discipline to it. It does nothing to elevate, to uplift, to improve. It merely tears down.” Alejandro shook his head. “No, if the soprano is anything in that line, I have no need of her performance.”
“You speak of Picasso’s work Life, painted after his recent visit to Barcelona, Your Highness?” asked Gaston Leroux with genuine curiosity.
“It looks more like death,” replied Alejandro with indifference, tightening his eyebrows while discarding his low card. “Picasso may call it what he will. What is its contribution to society?”
“The painting is meant to incite one’s emotion,” noted Esteban. “It begs us to take notice of the suffering of humanity.”
If disgust is an emotion, it has fulfilled its purpose. “We have all noticed it, but let us do something about it rather than painting dismal pictures,” Alejandro replied wearily without taking his eyes from his cards. Everything was a reminder of so much that needed to be done. And I have so little real power.
“You are not yourself this evening, Your Highness,” le comte de Saint-Cyr remarked gaily as he dealt the cards for another round. When he finished dealing the cards, he glanced at himself in the mirror behind Leroux’s head and seemed to be pleased with what he saw. “You are quite afflicting us all with gloom.”
“I am very much myself. That is why you find fault with me,” Alejandro replied, looking up absently. He turned to scan the other boxes for a sign of the woman before returning to his cards. Diantre! Why could he not see her? She could have lit the night skies. “And I beg you will call me by my name, my friend.”
“I set an example for le duc de Valentinois.” Saint-Cyr chuckled. “I wish him to know his place. His title was recognized by Napoleon and is therefore in question.”
“Ah, but my champagne is good enough for you, I observe, despite my questionable bloodlines,” replied Valentinois, laughing and pouring Saint-Cyr another glass of champagne.
“As we have already established, Saint-Cyr’s nobility initiated with Napoleon, his ancestor being one of Napoleon’s nine guards,” Esteban reminded the party.
“Just so. Whereas my ancestry was noble long before my family was recognized by Napoleon.” Valentinois chuckled, raising his glass in unconcealed enjoyment. “It is a joke on himself Saint-Cyr enjoys.”
“But none of us can trace our royal lineage as far back as the Comte de Champagne.” Leroux winked, holding up the bottle of champagne.
“Even Alejandro, who can only trace the House of Bonifácio back to the thirteenth century,” remarked Saint-Cyr. “A toast then…to champagne, to France, and to España.”
“To honor and character,” Alejandro countered resolutely, raising his glass to Esteban. He grew increasingly bored by the conversation. There was no topic of less interest to him than one’s illustrious bloodlines,
even in jest.
Or perhaps he was already much more unsettled by the woman in black than he wished to admit.
Sparkling conversation was surprisingly difficult for him this evening. Racking his brain, he offered, “We had expected to be joined by the British diplomats to France this evening, but at the last moment the wife fell ill. I received the note only upon entering the opera house.” He didn’t really give a damn at that moment, though he had earlier been quite put out by the change of plans.
“A shame. I so enjoy affairs of state,” Saint-Cyr quipped. “What is his name?”
“Ravensdale,” Esteban interjected, even as he kept his eyes forward, scanning the opera house. “A great war hero. I understand that he is a most interesting and formidable fellow.”
“Scintillating, no doubt,” Saint-Cyr murmured, picking up his cards.
“Didn’t Ravensdale serve many years in Tibet before that fiasco of an invasion by the British?” Valentinois asked pensively.
“I am relieved you said it, Duc, and not I. I do not wish to be admonished again for stating the truth. Ravensdale had nothing to do with that invasion and, in fact, exerted every effort to prevent it, I understand.” Alejandro’s lips formed a half smile as he attempted to express interest through his melancholy.
“Younghusband led the British troops,” stated Esteban quietly.
“Do not bore us with your politics, Alejandro,” pleaded le comte de Saint-Cyr. “It can be no concern of ours.”
“To the contrary,” stated Leroux. “Ravensdale was instrumental in the signing of the Entente Cordiale, bringing closure to centuries of hostility between France and England.”
“For that Saint-Cyr can never forgive him,” exclaimed, discarding a five of diamonds and enjoying another sip of champagne.
“How could Saint-Cyr object to the signing of a peace treaty?” Leroux asked.
“I assure you that the hostilities have not ended as far as Saint-Cyr is concerned,” noted Valentinois, smiling at his friend. “The blood of the warrior flows in his veins.”
They all burst into laughter even as Saint-Cyr waved his lavender hand to a friend in the opposite box, tossing his blond curls defiantly in le duc de Valentinois’s direction.
“Saint-Cyr would put Marie Antoinette to the blush,” agreed Alejandro, feeling some amusement for the first time that evening.
“Not so with you, Alejandro.” Saint-Cyr smiled. “Do you recall the time we were set upon by bandits, and you had overcome the lot of them before we had managed our surprise?”
Valentinois began to laugh uncontrollably at the memory. “Saint-Cyr almost choked on his own collar without any help from the enemy.”
“You are no stranger to the sword either, Valentinois, and a damn fine boxer as well,” Alejandro remarked.
“None of which served me in the incident in question. My reflexes are no match for yours, Alejandro.”
“I owe what little skill I have to Esteban,” he stated, turning to glance into the audience. The gloom was descending upon him again at not being able to find the woman in black. She was far too exquisite to have disappeared into thin air, and it appeared that she had.
The curtain began to rise and, with it, the sounds of anticipation. Alejandro turned his back to the stage and applied himself to his hand, reluctantly taking another sip of champagne.
The musical overture ensued, and another round of cards was played. It seemed the night was destined to go on forever—and the opera had not yet begun!
And then came the moment when his world changed forever.
Suddenly he was surrounded by the most heavenly ambrosia he had ever experienced. He had never heard anything so beautiful, so entrancing in his life.
As long as he kept his eyes closed, his party would remain silent. No one would speak as long as he was clearly in a reverie, despite their facade of equality. In contrast to their usual friendly banter, he could have heard a pin drop. Her voice intermingled with his soul and captivated him there.
Alejandro opened his eyes and turned to discover the source of this magic, oblivious to everything but that first moment of seeing the angel who had delivered this intoxicating experience.
No. It couldn’t be. The soprano and the woman in black were one and the same.
He had been ensnared by an opera singer.
Chapter Eleven
On the day that I saw her, I forgot every other
—Gioachino Rossini, The Barber of Seville
“Damnation!” he whispered under his breath as he clenched his fist. The reality of her identity was a slap in the face. For an instant he forgot the beauty of her voice. He had been made to look like a fool by a stage singer. An actress.
How did I allow that to happen? Alejandro shook his head in self-recrimination as his irritation grew. He should have been more discerning and picked up on the clues. Had he not observed her unusual style of dress? How could he have not seen it?
Distance provided him with a more objective view. The hem of her dress did not even reach the floor. His eyes moved eagerly along the outline of her legs and her figure before being drawn to her face. How could each visual be more beautiful—and scintillating—than the last?
“Do you know her, Alejandro?” asked le comte de Saint-Cyr, waving a lavender glove toward the stage.
“Not precisely. But…I will. Very soon.” His eyes remained fixed on the stage as he shook his head.
Not for a moment had he suspected her identity. Reluctantly he admitted the truth to himself. He had been too besotted to notice anything but her.
“I am pained even now for her inevitable broken heart.” Le duc de Valentinois chuckled, his dark, mysterious looks in contrast to his jovial nature.
And still the reality of her identity amazed him. Despite her delightfully revealing dress and shocking display, there was nothing cheap or inelegant about her. Nothing groveling or grasping for approval. Even now she seemed as if she were from the upper echelons of Parisian society despite every evidence to the contrary. Her speech, her deportment, her confidence—everything had proclaimed education and breeding.
“She is…enchanting. I may have to cast her in my next novel.” Gaston Leroux watched her intently while a card slipped out of his hand unnoticed.
It was imperative that he be able to read every person and every circumstance. And the fact that he had been so easily mislead was a painful reminder of his sure failure as a ruler.
Alejandro experienced a stab of pain as he remembered the stage actress of his salad days. Something about actresses, he supposed. They seemed to be his weakness.
And still there was something vastly different about this actress.
If only. Alejandro shook his head. If only actresses were the only arena in which he could be fooled. He feared this deception pointed out a bigger flaw in his character.
“And who will be her dark lord, her benefactor, my romantic friend?” Saint-Cyr asked. “Give her a lover as mysterious and elusive as she.”
“A phantom dark lord?” Leroux asked, barely audible.
“A crown prince, perhaps?” Valentinois asked.
“Madre de Dios!” He cursed under his breath. The last incident, also involving an actress, had only hurt his heart. That was no matter. But what if his gullibility led to an assassination, leaving Spain without a sovereign? Or to the theft of top security papers? Or to an event that threatened the financial stability of his country?
I must overcome this weakness.
As he watched her slink across the stage, it seemed an impossibility.
Involuntarily he set his indignation aside as his eyes remained glued to her, entranced by her performance. She was the most enchanting, the most provocative, the most desirable woman he had ever seen. And, if the truth be known, he was the fool, not her. She had merely played along with the game he had set into motion.
“It is your turn, Alejandro. Play your card then return to your evil scheming.” Saint-Cyr shrugged and placed his ca
rd on the table.
Would she have eventually told him? He had no way of knowing her character because he had played his hand too early, fatal to the diplomat.
“I am finished playing,” he replied with finality, tossing the queen of diamonds on the table.
“But you won, Alejandro,” Saint-Cyr protested.
Far from it.
She held the audience captive in her hands. He watched her with a growing desire. As she moved across the stage with the most alluring of movements, every man in the opera house had his eyes glued to the stage. Her movements were sensual and graceful, her hips swaying as her chest arched subtly but provocatively.
Holding nothing back, she flaunted her power over men, promising that she knew how to delight. She took pleasure in both the jealousy of the women and the lust of the men. Her movements and her voice escalated, blending with and feeding the intensity of the audience’s reaction at the same time.
“Love is a rebellious bird that no one can tame, a thing no force can hold. You call it in vain if it chooses not to come.” Once she had every male eye on her, desiring her, she warned her admirers against the dangers of desire, singing in French, “If you don’t love me, I love you. And if I love you, watch out for yourself.”
There was a collective gasp in the audience. She slinked across the stage, and Alejandro’s mouth went dry. Without thinking he reached for the expensive champagne, which was even more tasteless than he recalled.
Why was he responding in this manner to a mere stage production? The fact remained that she was an actress playing a part. This was preposterous.
Or was it? No woman could play the part so convincingly without possessing the qualities. She exuded sensuality. Every movement, every glance expressed her ability to captivate any man still breathing and to have him—if she so chose. Against his every wish, he felt himself wanting her.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 9
