“I have no intention of seducing her, Esteban.” Despite the seriousness of his feelings, Alejandro could not help but smile as he beheld the disapproval in Esteban’s countenance. “She is too precious for that.”
“Precious?” repeated Esteban, clearly bewildered, almost dropping his pipe. “The dark arts? Are these not contradictory?”
“Contradictory? Yes, everything about Señorita Nicolette is contradictory.” Alejandro returned to his seat. He took both silver pots, one filled with coffee and one with milk, and began to pour them into his cup. He watched the warm, frothy milk mix with the rich, dark coffee effortlessly, forming a new creation. His lips curved into a smile as he reseated himself and brought the cup to his lips. “She might be a sorceress, but there is no doubt in my mind that, whatever her failings as an individual, she channels something divine. She is…the path to myself.”
He was not surprised to see the disbelief in Esteban’s expression. He didn’t believe the words himself. He didn’t know them until this moment.
“Let me hear it from your lips, Alejandro. You do not wish to bed her.”
He could not say that, as much as he might wish to. “I could have a woman in my bed at the snap of my fingers. Ay caray, I have to work to keep women out of my bed. You know that, Esteban.”
No, she was much more important than the fleeting satisfaction of his physical desires. He would not let his own cravings, his need that could not be satisfied, destroy the most beautiful moment he had ever experienced. “You have it wrong, my dear friend.”
“Clearly,” Esteban whispered. “And I have never been so happy to be wrong. Tell me, Alejandro. What do you think this singer can do for you?”
“Possibly nothing. But I know what she represents for me.”
“And that is…?”
“She is salvation.” Under his breath Alejandro murmured, “She represents a lost life.”
“You…love…her, Alejandro?” Esteban stared at him, aghast.
“I detest her.” Almost as much as he detested his need of her.
“You…what?” Uncharacteristically, Esteban slammed his fist on the table. “For God’s sake, Alejandro, talk sense!”
“She is the most unrestrained, undisciplined woman I have ever met. I do not care for her at all. However, she has a gift.”
“Several, I should think,” Esteban murmured, his calm returned.
“Don’t you see, Esteban?” Alejandro clenched his fists as realization tumbled down around him. “For one moment in time, I might be in perfect bliss. I might be able to forget about myself and my duty. I might overcome my failings. I might be the leader of nothing and of no one. For one glorious moment I have no father destroying my country, no country to be saved, only…peace.”
“Why would you think this woman could do all this for you, Alejandro?” Esteban asked softly, his expression incredulous.
“Because she already has, Esteban.” His lips formed a half smile as his eyes rested on the Sacré-Coeur. Softly he added, his voice distant, “She has the power to rewrite the past. Of that there can be no question.”
“Only God has that power, Alejandro.” Esteban shook his head.
“You are correct, Esteban. As I said, she channels the divine. Proof that the Almighty chooses the imperfect among us.”
“There is no other option.” Esteban shook his head, chuckling to himself.
“There can be no doubt that I reconnected with the pain of my childhood, if only for a moment. It is also noteworthy that I…survived.” Something unnamable had surprised him. He wondered what it was, he wanted to learn what it was.
Everything around him was new and vital. He glanced at the three silver tiers of fruit on the table, which held apples, pears, grapes, and bananas. He popped a grape into his mouth with irreverent defiance. It occurred to him that he loved traveling abroad and being able to serve himself. It would not be allowed in the Palacio Real.
He closed his eyes as the sweet juice of the grape filled his mouth. He relished not so much the flavor of the fruit as having a moment free of self-scrutiny. He had been released from the inner torment that he had known intimately since that terrible day.
He was not free. He might never be free. But he had turned a corner, and neither the memory nor the pain would ever again have the same hold over him. He had faced his fears—he had lived them—and he no longer needed to exert energy to suppress them.
They were welcome to come and fight him in person. Never again would he hide.
But he wanted more than to courageously face his tormenter. I want to live.
Nicolette Genevieve was the key bearer. Her heart might be black, but for whatever reason, God had entrusted her with the key to his soul, and he would not, could not, let her go until he knew the extent of her reach.
He had never craved anything so much in his life.
“Dining with a beautiful woman can do you no harm, Alejandro.” Esteban studied him with great interest as he took a puff on his pipe. “It hasn’t yet, at any rate.”
“I will see her one more time, Esteban.” A sudden resolve washed over him with a strength that surprised him. “If only to prove to myself that there is nothing further there for me.”
“But you forget that she refused you.”
“As you said, Esteban, a temporary state of affairs, I assure you.”
“Ah, and what do you plan to do, my friend?” He blew rings of smoke into the air.
“Plan? Yes, this will require more than gentle diplomacy.” Alejandro shrugged, tapping his finger on his coffee cup. “I am forced to make her an offer she cannot refuse in light of the fact that expensive gifts, obsequious groveling, and even appealing to her better nature has not worked.”
“She appears to require the full extent of your diplomatic training.”
“I have exhausted that route. It is time to call upon my military training.”
“You may win in one respect, Alejandro, but take care you do not lose in another. You may have finally encountered a worthy adversary.”
He picked up the newspaper and handed it to Esteban. “She may find that it is to her advantage to be accommodating.”
Chapter Sixteen
Pray, have pity
Have compassion
on a man in his condition!
He’s awaiting your permission,
You just send a little note
and he will hasten to your side,
Yes, he will hasten here to your side,
What’s your answer?
—Gioachino Rossini, The Barber of Seville
The air was less than celebratory at the Palais Garnier’s rehearsal following opening night. Uncharacteristically, Nicolette had difficulty in giving her best to the practice, but she forced herself to do so anyway. She knew that her grandmother was right: she was not going down without a fight.
She had heard the roar of the audience, and she knew that she had something to offer. She wanted to perform before thousands, and she wanted to know the extent of who she could be.
“Monsieur Beaumaris must see you at once, Mademoiselle Nicolette.” As she hastened to her dressing room following the rehearsal of the first act, Monsieur Beaumaris’s secretary pursued her behind the stage, waving frantically. “Proceed to his office immediately.”
It was not a request.
Apprehension filled her as she observed the secretary’s brusque manner. Trying desperately to breathe deeply, terror struck her heart as she wondered if her singing career was over, as she had a thousand times since last evening.
If that was the case, she would go to Vienna or London, she concluded, her thoughts racing. She could live with her grandmamma in London.
She would start over. It would be difficult, but what choice did she have? Sadness engulfed her as she thought of singing in the chorus for two more years before earning another chance at a leading role, possibly with the same outcome. Her heart shuddered in her chest. It was getting more and more difficult
to maintain her resolve.
Melancholy overtook her. Moving past the Grand Staircase, which split in the middle to veer off into interweaving corridors, alcoves, balconies, hidden rooms, and Greek columns, all lit by chandeliers and candelabras, she felt as if a ghost were watching her. She thought of the underground lake and its black fish and shuddered.
She had never before felt ill at ease in this intimidating structure, however magical and mysteriously haunted it might appear to others. The Palais Garnier was the venue for masked balls, ballerinas in tutus and full costume conversing with the guests, and chance meetings with royalty. The world’s most beautiful music was performed here. She had always found it to be glorious.
And now it was the means by which her life would be taken away from her.
“Mademoiselle Nicolette.” As she inched into his office, the director of L’Opéra national de Paris presented her with a forced smile. Monsieur Georges Beaumaris was in his early fifties, handsome and distinguished with styled blond-gray hair, a moustache, and golden-brown eyes. He was trim, on the short side of average height, and he wore crisp, well-fitting suits. He was debonair, smiled often, and spoke little. When he did speak, there was content to it.
Monsieur Beaumaris had the rare gift of being able to work with the most temperamental of artists. He was not temperamental himself, and he never displayed emotion. He was kindhearted, but he was a successful businessman who understood that his business was volatile.
“Monsieur.” She curtseyed.
“Bon. Please sit down.”
Again, it was not a request.
“The good news is that your performance last night was magnificent.”
“Merci, Monsieur Beaumaris,” she replied cordially, her hands shaking, feeling no comfort in his words. She could see from his expression that the worst was yet to come.
“The bad news is that the critics hated it.”
“But the audience…”
“It is not sufficient. The audience has not placed stories in the paper. And an audience is very fickle—she will change her mind if popular opinion decrees it …” He shook his head. “Very fickle.”
Nicolette braced herself for the worst. Oh, please, please don’t say that you’re going to replace me.
“However, all is not lost.” He tapped his hands on his desk, clean except for two neat piles. A bookcase behind him was filled with music scores arranged alphabetically. Photographs of the world’s most talented singers lined the walls. It was a simple office. A working office.
“Yes?” She gulped. Why did he sit there, staring at her as if she weren’t there? Of all things, that she was not accustomed to.
“You have an admirer, Mademoiselle Nicolette.”
“An admirer? As in one?”
“A very important patron.” For the first time there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes as he spoke. “The crown prince of Spain, to be precise.”
Nicolette swallowed hard. She used to have an admirer. “When did you see the prince?” she managed to mumble. For a woman with such a grand voice, it felt very small at the moment.
“A few minutes ago,” replied Monsieur Beaumaris. He pointed to her chair as if to indicate that the prince had only just sat there.
“A few minutes?” she managed to repeat, her heart racing. “And the prince was…cordial?” she asked hesitantly. She wanted to ask if it appeared that His Royal Highness was carrying a deadly weapon or intended to strangle her but thought the better of it.
Georges Beaumaris laughed somewhat forcibly, nonetheless suffusing the heavy air with a touch of lightness. “If the desire to have lunch with you is a sign of cordiality, then oui.”
“Lunch?” she asked incredulously.
“The prince is quite devoted to you, Mademoiselle Nicolette, I congratulate you.”
“Indeed?” she asked, her eyes opening wide. Devoted to his own pleasure. Nicolette’s mind was spinning as she considered her director’s words.
“He wishes a private performance.” Georges Beaumaris’s smile faded slightly.
“Yes, he told me as much himself.” She kept her eyes glued to Monsieur Beaumaris, not believing that he could stoop so low, her friend of so many years.
“Do not look at me thus, Lady Nicolette.” Monsieur Beaumaris leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache. His lack of concern with her reaction further alarmed her. The small room seemed to be shrinking. “We do this sort of thing all the time. This is a standard request among wealthy patrons of far less influence than the crown prince of Spain! If you wish to be a star, I strongly advise you to meet his small request and to encourage his patronage.”
“You wish me to encourage him?” She sat up straight in her chair, now inflamed. “Monsieur?”
“His Royal Highness assured me that his interest is of a purely professional nature.” Her shock must have been written across her face, because Monsieur Beaumaris shook his head adamantly.
“What else would he say?” she murmured, sinking back into her chair.
“No one is asking you to compromise your virtue, Mademoiselle Nicolette,” he replied quietly but decidedly. “And I would strongly advise you against it.”
“Do you deny that there are”—she cleared her throat—“liaisons between certain of the cast and the wealthy patrons?”
“I do not condone that, nor do I forbid it.” He shook his head. “It is out of my hands. That type of thing will never happen to someone who does not wish it. Take along whoever you like as a chaperone to be seated in an adjoining room. I will provide you with a bodyguard myself, s’il vous plaît.”
She stared at him, shocked. She thought she knew this man.
“Bien.” He crossed his arms over his chest, indicating this his stance was nonnegotiable. “The more you can be seen with the prince, the better for your vocation.”
“What are you saying, precisely, Monsieur Beaumaris?”
“Vous ne comprenez pas, Mademoiselle Nicolette.” You do not understand. “Unless we can rectify the damage that has been done by the critics, I am sorry to say that your singing career will be fini before it begins.”
“I need to be certain that I understand you, Monsieur Beaumaris.” Nicolette’s heart fluttered in her chest violently, but she brought all of her acting ability to the forefront. All her life Nicolette had known herself to be powerful, a person in control of her own destiny, and suddenly she was at the mercy of a man she had only just met, a man whom she found utterly revolting.
“That is best.”
“Are you telling me that, if I do not have lunch with this stranger, a man I know nothing about, and do not give him a private performance, that I will no longer be a soloist with the opera?”
“Oui, that is very likely, Mademoiselle.” He tipped his chin.
She could not believe what she was hearing.
“The roles will always go to the most popular singers. I cannot cast you if no one wishes to see you. And no one will wish to see you if you have only negative publicity.”
She knew this to be absolutely true—the very thoughts she had been entertaining—but could not find it in herself to agree. The implications were almost immoral and certainly demeaning.
“Mademoiselle Nicolette, you need this acquaintance.” He smiled, his expression suddenly tender. “His Royal Highness can do you a great deal of good. He may be a stranger to you, as you put it, but the rest of the world knows of him, and that is the relevant point.”
“Why is it necessary when I have already done the work, Monsieur? I have never groveled before anyone—even when I had so much to learn—and now that my talent is fully developed, I must do so.” Her stomach twisted violently, and she wondered if she might become ill. She added softly, “And why do I feel that I am compromising myself?”
“This is not about groveling, Mademoiselle Nicolette. This is about the realization of your dreams, nothing more.” He rose from his chair and began pacing, his expression severe. “You might be the worst singer o
n earth, but if you are seen about town with the prince of Spain, people will come to the opera just to see what all the fuss is about.”
“So I must cater to gossipmongers?”
“And once they are here, you show them precisely what the fuss is about.” He moved very close to her face and looked directly into her eyes. In a low voice he added, “You give them the show of their lives, Mademoiselle.
“You decide what is most important to you, Mademoiselle Nicolette.” He began pacing again, but his voice remained calm. “I can find another singer, so it is up to you.”
He would not find another singer who would sing the role as well as she did. Never. But he could most certainly find another singer.
“I am willing to give you this chance, Mademoiselle.”
Her head was swimming, and she was growing dizzy, but another question of importance occurred to her. “And what of Enrico? Is his future secure?”
“I would not worry, Mademoiselle Nicolette. In fact, Caruso has just received an offer to sing at The Metropolitan Opera in New York City, America. He will begin after he has completed this season.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“And your answer is?”
Swallowing hard, Nicolette perceived that Monsieur Beaumaris was no longer engaged in conversation. His eyes seemed suddenly softened, but he would not waver from his decision.
She knew him that well, at least. Either she agreed now, or someone else would be cast in the role.
Her role. She had been presented a solution to her career in the person of the prince of Spain. Like it or not, he was her greatest hope for a future. She might find his methods despicable, but the fact remained that he was the answer to her problems. She must do as she had always done: smile, take life by the horns, and become the star of every room she entered.
“Where am I to meet the prince for lunch?” she managed, her voice small but determined. Once set on a course, Nicolette grew unwaveringly tenacious. She would do whatever was necessary to save her singing career.
But it would be on her terms. No one, not even the prince of Spain, would back her into a corner.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 15