“Teresa’s distress had nothing to do with you, my lord, I assure you.”
A knot of anxiety in his chest eased. “What was it then? For God’s sake, what made her behave in such a way?”
“She was terrified because of something that once happened, a specter from the past.” The theatrical phrase sounded odd, spoken in her precise German accent.
“Might I be permitted to know what you’re talking about? I’d like to understand.”
“The secret is not mine to tell. Teresa must do so herself.”
“Is she likely to?” A fledgling hope batted its wings in Max’s heart.
“She doesn’t trust easily. Give her time, Lord Allerton.” Mrs. Montelli looked into his eyes. “I think you might be the one who can help her.”
“What can I do?”
Her mouth turned down at the corners. “I don’t know, my lord. She may come out at any time and it is best if she doesn’t see me talking to you.”
Regally dismissed, Max headed for Piccadilly, a street that no longer held any terrors for him.
His head had cleared. What an idiot he had been. Nothing had really changed since the night of the fire, or, if he was honest, many weeks earlier. He wanted Tessa. For good and forever.
Because he loved her.
He loved her and all he had to do—all!—was find out how to win her trust and her damaged heart.
Now that she was to sing at his opera house he would have the chance to prove that she had no need to fear him. There were several weeks until the end of the season and he would give her the time Mrs. Montelli said she needed. By the final performance—her triumphant benefit which would take place, as was entirely proper, on his stage—he would win her for his own.
He invested a swagger into his walk and a smile on his lips as he tipped his hat to several acquaintances. The leafy expanse of Green Park loomed on his left and, on his right, the walls of Tamworth House.
Goddamn it, his mother!
Charging in to Lindo’s office like a knight errant, he hadn’t given her a thought. But by paying for Tessa’s benefit he had violated the terms of their wager. He’d have to marry a girl of her choosing.
How was he going to avoid it? For avoid it he must. There could be no question of wedding anyone else when he knew with absolute certainty that he would love Tessa for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“This Present evening will be performed the Grand Serious Opera of LA SEMIRAMIDE at the Regent Opera House, the part of Semiramide played by Madame Foscari.”
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“What happens to a theater after it has burned down?”
“I imagine they clear away the rubble. Can’t allow such an eyesore to remain in the middle of London.” Simon knew that wasn’t the answer Lady Clarissa wanted, but he was tired of her persistent questions about his professional qualifications and experience.
When asked—commanded rather—to call on Lady Clarissa Hawthorne, he’d thought she’d want to talk about her son. Something was going on between Max and his mother that Simon didn’t understand. He was prepared to use his best stalling tactics while extracting the maximum information from his hostess. Instead he’d faced a series of piercing questions about the theatrical business in general and his own history in particular.
“Don’t be foolish, Mr. Lindo. You know that’s not what I mean. Will the Tavistock be rebuilt?”
“The company that held the lease and the license is bankrupt. I imagine the ground landlord will look for a new lessee.”
“Someone with the means to build a new theater?”
“Or with the ability to attract investors.”
Simon politely stood when she arose from her own chair and came over to stand close to him and look him in the eye, a feat requiring no great effort since he had scarcely two inches advantage in height. A subtle and undoubtedly costly scent tickled his nostrils. In fact her entire physical presence spoke of wealth. Her coiffure, without a dark hair out of place or a gray one permitted to intrude, arranged with an artless perfection that only high art could achieve. The flawless complexion of a woman half her age. Her fine, though not voluptuous, figure enhanced by a morning gown of olive-green sarcenet, which Simon, from his knowledge of costumery, could price by its very expensive yard. Unwillingly, he found she stirred him.
The perfection of her appearance complemented her surroundings—a sumptuous palace that existed only as a setting for this one woman alone.
Hardly alone, he corrected himself. Likely a hundred servants shared it with her, catering to her every desire. He mustn’t let himself be intimidated by her power. He met her gaze squarely and found an expression of something—mischief perhaps, or gleeful anticipation—at odds with the arrogant dignity of her appearance and environment.
“How do you feel about shipwrecks, Mr. Lindo?”
“I can’t say I’ve given the subject a great deal of consideration,” he said with a straight face. “I’m glad I’ve never been in one.”
“What about elephants?”
“Elephants, donkeys, dogs and cats. They’re all the same to me. I’ll admit I’m not an animal lover.”
His nonchalance irked her. “Mr. Lindo, I believe you are trifling with me. I’m talking about animals on the stage.”
“And shipwrecks too?”
“I once saw a shipwreck at the Aquatic Theatre at Sadler’s Wells. Most disappointing. They had hardly enough water to drown a dormouse. I had hoped for a deluge.”
“I infer that your dramatic tastes run to the spectacular.”
“I always enjoy a visit to Astley’s. Much more fun than the deadly serious stuff you and Max put on. Could you manage a display of that nature?”
“Though I have in recent years concentrated on musical performances, my theatrical experience is broad. I know the right people to mount a spectacle of the kind you describe. Should I be so inclined,” he concluded repressively.
Lady Clarissa smiled. “Good. I have a mind to go into the theatrical business and you seem like a suitable partner for me.”
Well, that was surprising. What was her game?
“I already have a partner. Your son.”
“You and Max may continue to put on your little operas. I prefer to think larger. I want to rebuild the Tavistock.”
Despite his suspicion of the lady’s motives, Simon felt a gathering excitement. He’d always had large ambitions himself. “It’s an interesting idea,” he said, careful not to let his enthusiasm show.
“How long will it take? Can we have it ready to open next season?” she asked, undeterred by his lack of animation.
“Less than a year? A tall order, but it’s astounding what can be achieved with plentiful money and the will to match.”
“I assure you, Mr. Lindo, there is no deficiency of funds. And I always get what I want.”
Simon could see himself carried away on the tidal surge of her will. An association with Lady Clarissa would be, he fancied, like riding a tiger. Frightening yet invigorating. If he lost his grip, the tiger would eat him whole. And that prospect was…arousing.
Where had that thought come from? He wasn’t given to double entendre, even in his own mind. He wondered what he was getting himself into.
*
Entering Tamworth House a couple of weeks after promising to fund Tessa’s benefit, the last person Max expected to find in his mother’s drawing room was Simon.
“Max, my dear,” she said, offering her cheek for a kiss. “What a lovely surprise!”
“Hardly, Mama, since you invited me.”
“But I’m surprised you came.”
“You told me you had someone for me to meet and promised me no females under the age of thirty.” He glanced about the room, half expecting to detect a youthful beauty lurking behind a curtain.
“I want you to meet Mr. Lindo.”
“Very funny.”
“Mr. Simon Lindo, my new colleague in a theatrical venture.”<
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“What?”
“I am so glad you persuaded me to engage Madame Foscari for that recital. I’d never have met such fascinating people, or discovered how interesting the theater is. We are going to rebuild the Tavistock Theatre and put on spectacles.”
“Eyes beginning to give you trouble are they, Mama?”
“I mean dramatic spectacles.”
The Tavistock fire had foiled her plan to make Tessa so popular it would empty the Regent. The soprano was comfortably settled in her spacious and very comfortable dressing room at the new house and had been drawing in the crowds for a week now.
“Not the operatic business, I trust?” he asked, casting Simon a reproachful look. Surely his mother wasn’t so fiendish she’d steal his business partner and take him on at his own game?
“No indeed. For a start, everything we present will be in English so people can understand it. And we won’t have ridiculous stories set in Spanish prisons.”
Though he knew better, Max rose to the defense of his genre. “One opera set in a Spanish prison. One. Mozart and Rossini never set operas in prisons. Unless,” he amended conscientiously, “you count a Turkish harem.”
“A harem! I like it. A huge ballet with lots of beautiful dancers to attract the gentlemen.”
“Mama!”
“Shipwrecks! Animals! Battles and fireworks!”
Despite his suspicions, amusement welled up. As long as the Tavistock didn’t present opera, he didn’t care. “Better make sure the building is fireproof.”
“Mr. Lindo will see to all that. He’s a most knowledgeable man.”
“Simon?” Max turned to his partner, a little disappointed he’d succumbed to the temptations of Hawthorne gold. He’d had more respect for Lindo. “I thought you committed to the Regent.”
“I assure you, Max, I can manage both concerns. Now that the Regent is well-established and has no rival, the management will be a simple matter.” Simon grinned. “How can I resist the challenge of an enterprise to rival Astley’s and Covent Garden under one roof?”
“You must do as you think best. I trust your judgment.”
When it came down to it, Max wasn’t that interested. He was pleased his interfering mother had found a project besides his matrimonial prospects. Happy, in fact, that she’d found a pursuit that amused her. Doubtless in the future the two of them would find pleasure in having dramatic productions in common. They were, after all, very alike. Aside from the fact that he wasn’t a willful, imperious, interfering female.
Max had troubles of his own of the female variety, leaving him little time for other considerations. What should he do about Tessa?
Simon and Lady Clarissa chattered on in the background about the engineering feat of constructing a stage capable of holding a herd of pachyderms or enough water to reenact the Battle of Trafalgar. His mind was occupied by his own opera house and its new prima donna.
Following Mrs. Montelli’s advice, he hadn’t approached Tessa except as the concerned and admiring owner of her theater. He’d dropped by her first rehearsal to welcome her but he hadn’t stayed, however much he wished to. By all accounts her behavior at rehearsals and back stage had been unfailingly gracious and obliging. He’d heard a comment or two that she seemed to have recovered from the horrible fire with remarkable speed.
He thought otherwise.
Whenever he glimpsed Tessa she looked forlorn. And worried too, as though she were Atlas responsible for gathering up the shattered remnants of the planet and holding them aloft on her frail shoulders. The audience offered its usual boisterous adoration but Max, watching every performance from his box, detected a strain, an almost undetectable disquiet in La Divina’s stage presence.
“There’ll be enough time,” his mother was saying. “What do you think? Max! Wake up, Max!”
“When do you hope to open this new temple of wretched excess?” Max asked, wrenching his attention back to the present.
“Our goal is the beginning of next Season, straight after Easter.”
A typically overambitious estimate. Absurd, in fact.
“You had better enjoy your little Regent’s popularity while you may. Next year everyone will be coming to my new Tavistock.”
That confirmed her game—to make the Regent fail and win her bet. It was a ridiculous notion, especially since they had La Divina and she did not. But there was the annoying truth he had already lost when he agreed to fund Tessa’s benefit. Damn, he wished he hadn’t made such a stupid wager. The only answer was to make sure she never found out. Dishonorable, of course, but the alternative was intolerable.
He didn’t think Simon would discuss Regent business with Lady Clarissa, but he’d better warn him to keep his mouth shut.
“Is there anything else, Mama?” he asked. “I have an appointment. If you’re ready to leave, Simon, we can walk together.”
His mother waved her arm at him. “Go, go! You’re no use here. But I need Mr. Lindo. We have much to plan about making my theater the greatest London has ever seen. How large an audience did you say we can fit in? Three thousand? Four?”
Max stormed out.
*
“You are a very wicked woman, my lady,” Simon said as the double doors slammed, making a display of porcelain on the mantelpiece quake.
Lady Clarissa had the grace to look a little guilty.
“I don’t enjoy being manipulated,” he continued, “and I won’t be used as a weapon in any battle you are waging against your son.”
Privately, Simon wasn’t unduly worried. Max could hold his own against his forceful mother. As for Her Ladyship, if her intention was to keep her son away from Teresa Foscari she was going about it the wrong way.
Nevertheless, there were things he needed to make clear to the willful heiress before he became irretrievably entangled with her.
“Do you wonder why I have worked in so many different theaters?”
“It’s given you very wide experience.”
He ignored her. “It’s because I’m difficult to get on with. I like to have my own way and I don’t take kindly to being ordered about and contradicted.”
“You do very well with Max, apparently.”
“I have enormous respect and affection for Lord Allerton and I believe the feeling is mutual.”
“Max is a lamb,” she allowed.
In Simon’s opinion Max was a saint. And much tougher than he appeared to have survived a lifetime with Lady Clarissa without turning into a raving maniac.
“I repeat. Max and I respect each other and have found ways to resolve any differences that arise in a civil manner, but he is the only man I’ve ever worked with of whom I can say as much. If we are to be colleagues this is something you need to know.”
“I’m very easy to get on with, Mr. Lindo.” An outrageous statement delivered with a teasing smile.
“One of the first requirements of a successful association,” he said sternly, “is trust. And that means you don’t lie to your partner.”
“Very well. I can be easy to get on with. I’m sure most of my acquaintances find me the most agreeable of women.” He raised his eyebrows. “But not all of them,” she admitted.
Simon sighed. “I can see this is going to be very interesting.”
She wandered over to a large gilt mirror and adjusted some illusionary imperfection in her coiffure. A frivolity of lace and ribbon was its only adornment. Very different from the enveloping caps worn by respectable middle-class matrons of his own circle. Her straight back enhanced the discreet, elegant curves of her figure. Was she aware how much she appeared to advantage from across the room? Probably. Hastily he dragged his eyes from her body and met her eye in the glass.
She gave an enigmatic smile. “How old are you Mr. Lindo?”
“That’s a personal question.”
“Is it a state secret?”
“I’m forty-five. How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine,” she said without hesitation.
Lady Clarissa had a way to go before she achieved a state of perfect frankness.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“A scene of some dramatic interest passed at the Regent Opera House a few days ago. A lady of very estimable character, on entering the first row of boxes, was suddenly seized with a nervous attack, from seeing near her the mistress of her husband, who appeared disposed to insult her. For once the attention of the audience was distracted from the considerable charms of Madame Foscari…”
The Morning Post
Rising late, Tessa wandered downstairs and looked for Sempronio. Searching their new lodgings, a small house on Stratton Street, took only a minute or two. Sofie had done her best with the cramped quarters, demonstrating rarely used skills as a hausfrau. Her modest addition of throw rugs and table coverings drawn from shawls in Tessa’s extensive wardrobe couldn’t compete with the spaciousness, luxury, and modern plumbing of the Pulteney, but they lent a degree of elegance to a very ordinary—and mercifully cheap—abode.
Tessa wanted to get her daily vocalizations over. Dissatisfied with her performance the previous night, she had little enthusiasm for work, yet knew she needed it. The audience had been restive. While she might argue that her voice still suffered from the after effects of the fire, deep down she knew it to be an excuse. La Divina was losing her touch. And instead of feeling terror at the possible loss of her talent and livelihood Tessa was too listless to care.
Angela’s entrance with a delivery of flowers and the morning mail aroused her attention—but only for a moment. Tessa flipped through the letters. There were several invitations, a couple of bills, and the usual fulsome tributes from admirers, most of them male and interested in more than her skills as a singer. But a quick glance at the arrangements had already told her not to expect anything better. Just about every glorious product of the English summer garden was represented in today’s delivery from the florist. But no white roses.
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