She truly did not know where to look first—at the strange pillars with bronze serpents coiling down them headfirst, at the exotic red Chinese laquered panels, or at the ribbon-wound bamboo side ceilings that were topped by an immense central dome made up of first blue, then gold scales, as if it mimicked the protective skin of some elegantly painted reptile.
There were chandeliers everywhere, lighting the room as if it were still daylight and showing off the strange gilt furniture that seemed to encourage people to lie half reclined rather than sit. But of premier importance to Allegra was the orchestra of at least seventy musicians who sat on one side of the room, their instruments at the ready.
“Magnifico. Molto magnifico! It is just like a great cathedral, Valerian, only pretty—and maybe just a tiny bit naughty,” she declared fervently, which encouraged Valerian to laugh out loud.
Yes, everything in the Music Room pleased her, except perhaps a few of its occupants who seemed to be a little the worse for drink and prone to make disparaging remarks about their host, who had yet to join them. She couldn’t help noticing the looks she was receiving from many of the gentlemen present—looks not difficult to interpret—nor did she really like the way the ladies seemed to ignore her in droves. Only one, a rather faded redheaded lady dressed in purple, had actually spoken to her at dinner, and then only to demand imperiously that she reveal the name of her dressmaker.
As he caught sight of a twice-widowed Marquis making his way in their direction, all but smacking his lips as he eyed Allegra’s bodice, Valerian led the girl, who was still gazing upward in rapture at the immense dome, to a pair of blue brocade satin chairs at one side of the room. They sat down, only to rise again as the Regent entered, a heavily painted and ostrich-plume-topped Lady Hertford on his arm.
For the next two hours the Regent performed for his guests, playing the cello and then singing “Mighty Conqueror” and “Glorious Apollo” for them in a surprisingly pleasing baritone before commanding the assembled musicians to play—as he beat a hearty accompaniment on his knee—a nearly endless selection of his favorite musical works with, to Allegra’s mingled delight and dismay, a most telling emphasis on Italian rococo.
It had passed eleven before Allegra, who had found herself growing weary in the overheated room, noticed that many of the guests were taking their leave, and made to follow them.
Valerian held her back. “No, imp, you aren’t rescued yet. Duggy told me we are to be a part of the select few who have been honored with an invitation to retire with the Regent to a nearby drawing room for a cold supper.”
“Supper?” Allegra clapped a hand to her mouth as her exclamation seemed to echo in the rapidly emptying room. “Valerian, you can’t be serious! I couldn’t possibly eat a thing!”
“There you are, gel!” Baron Dugdale approached slowly, favoring his bandaged foot. “Good news, m’dear. I told Prinny all about your singing and he has agreed to hear you after supper. You singing, Lady Brownley playing at the harp—Lord help us—and the Earl of Somewhere-or-another is going to scrape away at a violin or some such nonsense.”
He leaned forward, peering intently into her eyes. “You weren’t funning me, gel, were you? Poor fellow seemed so pleased to hear he had a real I-talian here to sing for him, though for the life of me I don’t know why. He just had some other foreign warbler here last month. They sing in their own lingo, you know, so that you can’t understand a word of it even if you was to try, which I surely don’t. Seems a waste of time to even listen to ’em, don’t it? Well, never mind that. You’d best be good. It isn’t smart to get on the wrong side of the next King of England.”
Allegra had relaxed, having given up all hope of performing that night, but now her nervousness was back in double force, not that she would allow her grandfather to see it. “Nonno, I once sang for the Bishop of Bologna,” she announced, her head thrown back challengingly. “I do not believe I should be an embarrassment to you—that is, if I should choose to sing tonight.”
Valerian thought for a moment that Lord Dugdale was going to reach out and slap his granddaughter. “If you should choose to sing tonight? If!” He turned to Valerian. “Fitzhugh, what is the gel talking about? What does she mean—if she should choose to sing tonight?”
“Hai messo il carro davanti ai buoi, Nonno. You have put the cart before the oxen,” Allegra retorted hotly, stepping directly in front of her grandfather so that he would stop looking to Valerian for answers that should be coming from her mouth.
Lord Dugdale employed the bottom third of his cane to push his granddaughter to one side, then all but bellowed at Valerian, “What’s she talking about, I asked you? Didn’t she talk about singing here? Isn’t that all she talked about in the carriage on our way? Besides, I ain’t asking her to sing! Odds fish—I’m telling her!”
Allegra stepped in front of Dugdale yet again. It was true. She was dying to sing for the Regent, and had been longing even more to perform for him ever since hearing the most wonderful acoustics of the domed Music Room. But some things were more important than her deathly desires.
“Ah, Nonno, now you have hit the nail with the mallet! I am a great artist. It is just like I told my manager, that thickheaded Erberto. It is I, and I alone, who must be allowed to choose the time and place of my performances. And I do not think I choose to perform alongside what are sure to be hapless harp ladies and violin-destroying Earls.”
Valerian stuck his head past Allegra’s shoulder and addressed the Baron. “Perhaps, Duggy, if Allegra and I might have a few moments alone?” he asked, hoping that for once in his life the older man would show some intelligence.
“Alone?” the Baron repeated, frowning. “I don’t know, Fitzhugh.” Then he brightened. “Odds fish, I guess it ain’t like the two of you haven’t been alone plenty before this, eh? In many ways you’re almost sort of her guardian.”
“Thank you so much, Duggy,” Valerian responded, the other man oblivious to the fact that he most sincerely wanted to throttle him.
The Baron looked about to see that nearly everyone else had either departed for the evening or proceeded to the supper room. “Now I’m in for it! Prinny’s already at table. Look, Fitzhugh—Valerian—be a good lad and talk some sense into this gel here, won’t you? I suggest the small salon down the hall. Everyone uses it when they want to—well, never mind about that. You just make sure this gel sings!”
“POOR NONNO.” Allegra collapsed, giggling deliciously, onto a striped satin settee in the discreetly placed salon. “I most probably should not have done that, but he must learn that I am not someone to be ordered about. I am a singer!”
“You sang mostly in the chorus, if memory serves,” Valerian reminded her, sitting beside her after closing the door to the salon. “Now tell me, what are you going to perform for the Prince?”
Allegra sat forward, frowning. “He has dismissed the orchestra, you know. Oh, yes, I saw that most distinctly. They will not be back.” She then rattled off a long stream of possible selections, holding each out verbally for inspection before, one by one, eliminating them all. She leaned against the back of the settee, which somehow was now draped most comfortably with Valerian’s black velvet sleeve. “Oh, I do not know what I shall do.”
Valerian looked down at her, seeing the adorable pout that had appeared on her enticingly pink lips, and swallowed hard.
He had to retain the knowledge that she was little more than a child.
He had to remind himself that he was a man of the world, an honorable man, and knew better than to steal a kiss from an innocent girl.
He had to remember that he, although so much older than she, and the possessor of angel wings, was still a reasonably young man of five and thirty, and not nearly ready to settle down and start his nursery.
He had to keep it clear in his mind that—“Oh, the hell with it!”
Valerian quickly shifted himself on the settee so that he sat slightly forward, turned in Allegra’s direction, and took her
chin between his fingers, “Imp,” he said, his voice husky, “if you think I’m going to ask your permission for this first, you’re fair and far out!” So saying, he lowered his head to hers and allowed himself to succumb to the sanity-destroying attraction of her moist, pouting mouth.
Allegra did not resist him, but rather welcomed him to her, winding her arms around his neck as he dared to deepen the kiss. He sensed rather than knew that this was her first kiss, for her reactions, although enthusiastic and wonderfully cooperative, were not at all practiced.
He could feel her body trembling under his hands and imagined that the hundreds of pearled petals were all rustling in a sweet summer breeze off the ocean. He could feel his own body begin to tremble as the passion Allegra’s innocent seduction wove around him penetrated to the very heart of his being.
If he didn’t stop soon, if he didn’t remember who he was and where he was and what he was about to do, he would be hopelessly lost, caught forever in Allegra’s magical spell. He should draw back. He should break off the kiss, apologize for his boorish behavior, get them both out of this exotic, tempting salon made for dalliance, and return Allegra to her grandfather.
He should. But he wouldn’t. Not when he lifted his head a fraction, opened his eyes, and saw the blissful, rapturous expression on Allegra’s beautiful face. He couldn’t. If all of Prinny’s dragons chose that moment to come to life and breathe their hottest fires or if all the bronze snakes began to hiss his name, Valerian could not have broken away from her.
Taking hold of her bare shoulders, he crushed her to him once more.
“Now, and isn’t this a most lovely picture, don’t you know? The toadeating old man is in the supper room, none the wiser, chatting up Old Swellfoot. And while the cat’s away, I always say, the mice will dance. Is that how it goes, my boyo?”
Valerian broke from Allegra so quickly that he nearly toppled backward onto the floor. “Max!” He couldn’t believe it. Maximilien Murphy in Brighton? In the Marine Pavilion? Why? How? He turned to see a short, pudgy man dressed in the formal wear and powdered wig of Prinny’s Banqueting Room servants. “What are you doing here?”
“Yes, it is I, Maximilien P. Murphy, at your service.” Max made his stunned audience a most magnificent leg (considering the tightness of his breeches), closed the door, and walked across the room to kiss Allegra on both cheeks. “What am I doing here? Up to a few minutes ago I was helpin’ to clear up the mess you people made over dinner, if you must hear it. Coulda fed all Dublin and half of County Clare on the scraps, don’t you know? Isn’t this the place, though? I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a mess of grandeur.”
“Uncail Max,” Allegra said, hopping to her feet to throw her arms about his neck, “it is so wonderful to see you again. Candie, and Tony, and the so-adorable Murphy—they are all fine?”
“Fine as shamrocks on a sunny day, child, though I’m wagering Candie wouldn’t be so happy to see what’s been going on in here. Then again, knowing my Candie, I must reconsider. She probably would be cock-a-hoop! Why, I remember her telling me how Tony, that rascal, climbed in through her bedroom window and—”
“Never mind that,” Valerian broke in hurriedly. “Max, I repeat—what are you doing here? Here in Brighton, and most especially here in the Pavilion? I thought you were living in Italy because you’re a wanted man in England.”
“Well, and of course I am, my boyo. And why d’you think I’m wearing this blasted, itchy wig?” He turned to Allegra. “You shouldn’t be letting him kiss you, don’t you know. Lovemaking always did have the power to rattle a man’s brains.”
Allegra blushed very prettily, and she did so now, murmuring, “Yes, Uncail Max. I’m very sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” Murphy shot back at her, winking. “Fib, m’darlin’, for a good fib may take you anywhere, but never lie.”
Valerian crossed to the door, opened it, and looked out, to be sure the hallway was clear. “Never mind that now, Max,” he commanded, all his passion now fled, and his thoughts again directed to the happenings of the moment. “What’s wrong? It has to be something very important for you to take the chance of coming to the Pavilion.”
“It could be and it couldn’t be.” Max sat himself down beside Allegra on the settee and reached a hand into a nearby candy dish, popping a comfit into his mouth. “But it can wait, boyo. Could you and the beautiful little colleen here meet me tomorrow on the Steine, say at two in the afternoon? You won’t know me, so I’ll find you. We’ll make our plans then.”
As Max started for the door, Valerian grabbed his arm, pulling him back. “This could have waited for tomorrow, couldn’t it, Max? You only sneaked in here, right under Prinny’s nose, for nothing more than the thrill of the thing, didn’t you?”
The Irishman grinned from ear to ear. “Ah, boyo, you’re an apt student of human nature. I like that in a man.” He looked past Valerian to wag a finger in Allegra’s direction. “And it’s a good thing I came here tonight, I’m thinking. If it’s designs on turning into a hoyden you have, m’girlie, you’d best think again. First the ring and the promise—then the kiss. Remember that, darlin’.”
“Yes, Uncail Max,” Allegra replied, her sapphire eyes dancing. “I’ll be very sure to remember that.” She looked toward Valerian, who was in his turn glaring at Max. “I always remember everything.”
“IN BOCCA AL LUPO,” Valerian whispered as Allegra rose from her chair, using an Italian saying meant to wish her good luck, but that sounded much better in Italian, as it translated to English only as “in the wolf’s mouth.”
He watched as she stepped to the exact center of the Music Room, curtsied deeply in the Regent’s direction, and rose to stand facing the future King, her hands decorously folded at her waist.
Allegra was the last to perform, a condition she had laid down to her grandfather, saying that it wouldn’t be fair to the other two performers to have to follow her lead. The occupants of the room, some of them more than half drunk and all of them yawning into their hands, could be heard squirming in their seats, eager for the interminable evening to come to an end.
Allegra waited until all sound had stopped, her chin high. The chandeliers threw a bright but flattering light, calling attention to her small, beautifully clad, regally erect frame.
Valerian thought he would burst with pride. He tore his gaze from her and sneaked a quick look around the room, smiling, he was sure, like a preening old hen with one chick. She held every occupant in the palm of her little hand, and she had yet to sing a note.
He could not know that, inside, Allegra was trembling so violently she thought she might become ill. He could not know that she would sing that night, not for the Regent, not for all the titled ladies and gentlemen, not even for her own enjoyment. Tonight she would sing for Valerian. Tonight she would give the performance of her life!
Just as Valerian was beginning to worry that Allegra might be hesitating too long, that she had become a victim of her own bravado and in truth could sing nary a note, she opened her mouth and, with the first pure, sweet sound that issued forth, dispelled his every fear.
She sang an aria from some Italian opera or other—Valerian did not readily recognize it or even care—her voice even more beautiful than she, if that were possible. The aria asked a lot from her—laughter, deep sorrow, amusement, elation, despair—and she gave herself over to the music most generously, her hand movements eloquent, her face animated, her eyes twin sapphire mirrors of deeply felt emotion.
Somehow—he would never afterward remember precisely when or how it had happened—he found himself standing, unable to remain seated in the presence of such beauty. He had always enjoyed attending the opera, in a social sort of way, but never had he been struck by anything as he was now by Allegra’s effortlessly soaring voice. He knew, just as well as he knew his name, that the memory of this night would comfort him every time he looked into her eyes and, if she were ever to leave his side, haunt him unceasingly into his gra
ve.
When it was over, the room remained silent, echoing only the last, long note of Allegra’s musical story. She turned toward him, her expression questioning, just as Prinny leapt from his chair, clapping loudly and calling, “Bravo! Bravo!”
A heartbeat later the Music Room exploded into pandemonium. The previously sleepy, jaded audience came to life, rushing to follow its host’s lead, each person trying to outdo the other with either praise or applause.
Valerian did not join them. He did not clap. He did not shout. He simply stood there, he and Allegra looking at each other as if no one else were in the room, until the crush of people eager to congratulate her took her from his sight.
“You’ve gone beyond hope, you know,” Max Murphy said from somewhere behind him. “I’ve seen it all before, with Tony and my Candie, and I know all the signs.”
Valerian didn’t even bother to turn around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max,” he said, knowing that no one, least of all someone as astute as Maximilien P. Murphy, would ever believe him. “And shouldn’t you be going before you’re found out? Not to be nasty, Max, but you’re not half so young or sleek as the rest of Prinny’s servants, and you’re beginning to stick out like a sore thumb.”
“It’s goin’ I’ll be doing now, boyo, until tomorrow at two,” Max said, chuckling, clearly not taking offense at anything a silly, lovestruck soul should say to him. “But it’s too late for you to be goin’ anywhere, no matter what the time. Your heart, don’t you know, has already flown.”
ALLEGRA DANCED about her bedchamber, her arms held wide, unable to contain her ecstasy. She felt like a child who has just been granted its most favorite wish, unable to sit still, but forced by her own inner excitement to constantly remain on the move.
“Oh, Betty!” she exclaimed, grabbing onto one of the bedposts and leaning back, swinging herself lightly from side to side, dressed only in her chemise. “You cannot know, you cannot imagine it! I am the sensazione! The pudgy Prince, he adores me, he weeps in adoration! And, ah, Betty—my nonno! My nonno puffs and preens and so forgets himself as to rush into the multitude of supplicants crowding about me and allows some stupid person to step on his poor toe! And still he doesn’t care. No! He tells everyone, ‘This is my granddaughter, to whom I am giving a plum!’ Betty, I cannot tell you how I enjoyed myself!”
The chaotic Miss Crispino Page 11
