The Regent’s success had other drawbacks. A week earlier Edouard Delorme had been complaining about meager audiences. Now the tenor had fresh demands: new costumes (containing even less fabric Max guessed), his name in larger type on the playbills, champagne in his dressing room, a higher fee for each performance, and an extra benefit.
Since depressing the demands of a conceited artist was a task better suited to Simon’s unyielding personality, Max took himself off.
As he turned into Piccadilly, he caught the spring fever that infected Londoners on a fine spring day. Tipping his hat to several acquaintances on the busy street, his conscience eased. The furor over the Chelsea Hospital benefit would soon abate and La Divina would regain her popularity. But now the new opera house was established as an alternative to the tawdry offerings of the Tavistock.
Picking his way through the throng, he noticed a carriage draw up at the Pulteney Hotel. He registered with interest, and an increasing heartbeat, a woman emerge from the door. But it wasn’t her. This figure of restrained elegance appeared to be an English gentlewoman, no doubt up from the country on a visit to the capital.
A shrill cry from a passerby alerted him—and others—to his mistake. “It’s her! Foscari!”
“The foreign woman!”
“Taking bread out of English mouths!”
“Won’t help our English soldiers!”
“Shame!”
Max watched, stunned, as the scene degenerated and the happy spring-celebrating crowd turned into a rabble, parroting the denunciations of the newspapers. It took but a second, but seemed to his appalled eyes to happen slowly, for a roughly dressed workman to snatch a pear from a street vendor’s cart and hurl it. It must have been overripe, for the fruit curved in a smooth arc and landed on its target’s bosom, where it exploded in a splat, a pale patch against dark red cloth.
Jerked out of immobility, Max thrust his way through the mob and a shower of missiles, taking a stinging blow on his back from something round and hard. Reaching Tessa, he placed himself between her and her attackers, swung her around and, keeping a protective arm about her shoulders, hurried her back into the hotel.
“My reticule!” she cried, her voice panicked. “I dropped it.”
“Leave it!” Her safety was more important than any small sum and minor feminine frivolities she might carry.
“No!” She pulled away from him. “I must have it.”
“I’ll get it.” He wasn’t going to let her go out and face a fresh assault of fruit. “Stay here.”
On the street he couldn’t hold back his expression of disgust. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, attacking a lady,” he said loudly, raising his fists in a belligerent attitude and daring anyone to defy him. For a moment he thought the hail of missiles would come his way, but the crowd, balked of their prey, settled down. The noise diminished and the threatening mob became ordinary people again, going about their business.
Max searched the ground where Tessa had suffered her ordeal. A sack of gray-beaded silk lay on the pavement. The strings had come loose and a piece of black velvet protruded. He scooped it up, finding it surprisingly heavy, and stuffed the contents back in as he returned to the hotel reception hall. But not before he glimpsed a glint of diamonds. Very large diamonds.
*
Tessa snatched the reticule from Max’s hands. It didn’t occur to her to thank him for his intervention. She was shaken, yes, but also furious. He was responsible for the whole ugly incident.
“Is my carriage still there?” she demanded of one of the hotel footmen who hovered uncertainly in her vicinity. Much help he’d been. As soon as she paid the hotel bill she would give the Pulteney management a piece of her mind and never patronize the place again. “I must go to Ludgate Hill immediately.”
“No, you will not,” Max interrupted. “You’re mad to go out into the rabble. Besides, your costume is ruined.”
Looking down at her lovely, new, unpaid-for gown that a few minutes earlier had seemed emblematic of a fresh start and was now stained with shreds of fruit, Tessa wanted to burst into tears. Disdaining to show such weakness in public, especially in front of Max, she turned without a word and headed for the staircase.
“I’m coming up with you.” He was right behind her.
She restrained the urge to slap him. Very well, let him come. She had a few choice words for Max Hawthorne, Viscount Allerton and the hotel lobby was not the place to say them.
Brushing aside Angela’s anguished squawks at the ruined gown, she marched into her sitting room, Max still at her heels.
“I’m sorry, Tessa,” he began.
The man had a nerve! As though an apology could begin to make up for what he’d done, for what she’d endured through his lies.
“Why? Why?” she asked. “What did I ever do to you? What have I ever done to anyone to earn such treatment?” Her voice broke on a sob but she was determined to speak her piece. “Since you left me I’ve lived only for my art. I’ve tried to use my God-given talents only for good—to give pleasure to others. I’ll have you know that when I was able I’ve given huge sums to charity, not to be thanked but to alleviate the suffering of others who were not born with my good fortune. And never once have I refused to lend my voice to a worthy cause. What you did was despicable when you know I had no idea what I was refusing.”
Through her tears she could see him poker-backed and frowning. If that was guilt written on his features, good. But guilt wasn’t enough. She wanted him to grovel. She wanted him to crawl to her on hands and knees with sorrow for what he had done. For the indignities he’d inflicted on her in London and for the misery he’d caused her in Portugal.
“What did I ever do to you?” Her voice rose. “All I did was love you.” There. She’d admitted it. She could no longer pretend she didn’t care.
His face twisted into a sneer. “Love, madam? You speak of love? You have conveniently forgotten the two thousand pounds you received to forget that love. You never understood the meaning of the word.”
“Two thousand pounds? I told you I’d never take two thousand pounds from you, or so much as a single penny.” She was screaming now and she seized a vase from the mantelpiece.
He stepped back, color staining his cheekbones. “Wait, Tessa.” He held out a hand but she was beyond reason. “What do you mean…?”
“Out! Out!” She launched the vase and it missed him, shattering against the wall. “I never want to see you again.”
*
The jeweler set down the last earring, removed his eyeglass, and surveyed the diamonds spread over the desk in a discreet back room of the shop. Raising his eyes he examined Tessa with a penetrating look, then returned them to the gems. She fought the urge to squirm. The new walking dress she’d wanted to wear to project an air of respectable prosperity was ruined. Its replacement, the soberest garment in her wardrobe, screamed with theatrical flair and overt sensuality. The man probably thought her a tart trying to cash in the wages of her trade.
But why should she care? It was what everyone thought.
“Am I to believe, madam,” the jeweler asked, “that you are unaware that these gems are false?”
She inhaled sharply and spoke in a whisper. “False?”
“Paste. Every one of them.”
For a moment she considered laughing it off, salvaging her pride by pretending she’d merely been testing the man’s expertise. But it wouldn’t do. She’d clearly stated she wanted to sell the diamonds. Bad enough he thought her a whore, without believing her a fraud into the bargain.
“No,” she admitted, fighting tears. “I had no idea.”
Tessa knew the occasion of Domenico’s final betrayal. It was in Paris and they’d quarreled. The emperor had commanded a private interview to congratulate La Divina. So went the public statement, though everyone knew better. She’d turned him down, of course. To preserve his pride Napoleon presented her with the cameo necklace, a token of his deep admiration for her tale
nt. The tacit understanding was that his court would believe he’d succeeded in his object.
Domenico had been furious. The cameos were trumpery compared to the jewels and other emoluments she’d have received as the emperor’s mistress. As usual she’d heard his rant in resigned silence. But he never gave up. He had another candidate in mind for her bed, a parvenu Bonapartist duke with a fortune derived from military supplies. When she’d continued to resist he grabbed her shoulders and shook her, and the clasp of the Tsar’s necklace broke.
Even then she’d been surprised. Domenico had never been overtly violent; he had too much respect for the health of his most valuable asset, herself. He’d also been careful of valuables. With a muttered apology he’d taken the entire Russian parure to be cleaned and mended.
And that, she concluded, was the last time she’d seen the genuine article.
“The quality of the reproduction is excellent.” The jeweler broke into her thoughts. “And the setting is fine Russian work. When worn, only an expert, or a very observant eye, would detect that the gems aren’t what they appear. The best French paste.”
The sympathy in his voice summoned her pride. “I take it their value is negligible?”
He didn’t bother to reply, merely nodded his agreement and continued to regard her with pity. A claw of fear in the pit of her stomach threatened to overcome any remnant of self-possession. Her eyes darted around the room, seeking a weapon. No! It was hardly the jeweler’s fault that her husband had been a scoundrel. Instead she experimented with some light breathing exercises and the panic subsided a little. Should she try singing again? With a flash of dark humor she envisioned the effect of a high note. It would be heard throughout the shop and even on the street and broadcast news of her presence to the world. She might count on the merchant’s discretion—London’s premier jeweler wouldn’t retain its reputation by tattling about its clients’ secrets.
“Be so good as to pack them up for me,” she managed with a semblance of calm. “I am sorry for wasting your time.”
On her return to the Pulteney, she found Monsieur Escudier, the French-born proprietor of the hotel, his manner conspicuously devoid of the caressing flattery he’d lavished on his famous guest at every opportunity.
“Madam,” Escudier said, “I must request that you depart from this establishment at your earliest convenience, whether you are able to settle your account or not. Your behavior is upsetting the sensibilities of our English patrons.”
The worst was not over. The manager’s departure coincided with the sound of another arrival in the vestibule, Angela’s protestations overborn by masculine rumbles in a voice she recognized only too well.
“I must see Madame Foscari.”
She rushed to slam the doors through which Escudier had just passed but she was too late. Eyes ablaze, Max stood on the threshold, while Angela tugged fruitlessly at his arm.
Tessa wasn’t in the mood for another “apology.”
“Kindly refrain from bullying my maid and leave at once,” she said, arms stretched wide and ready to drive him from the suite if necessary. “I have nothing to say to you.”
“I have something to say to you.” He shook off Angela’s restraining hand without effort.
“Ange—”
“If you think your maid can throw me out of here you are much mistaken.”
“You don’t know what my maid can do. She’ll do anything to protect me.”
“I can assure you, madam, that you’re not in any danger,” he said. His voice softened as he removed his hat and bowed. “I beg only that you hear me out. And answer a question.”
She pursed her lips and gave the shadow of a nod. She didn’t want Angela hurt again. “I will give you five minutes.”
Max glanced at the maid. “What I have to say is of a private nature.”
“Angela understands little English. And I would prefer not to be alone with you.” She murmured a few words in Italian and Angela perched on a chair in the corner of the room.
“Well?” She refused to offer the unwelcome visitor a seat, or even a chance to shed his outer garments. Instead she stood with hands on hips, cocking her head with a derisive air, and tapped her foot. “What is this question?”
He met her gaze, looked away, bit his lip, then returned his eyes to her face. “Tessa,” he said finally, “ever since I left you in the hotel this morning I’ve been wondering if I made a terrible mistake.”
“Of course you did. You ruined my reputation and livelihood in London.”
“Not that. I must know. Did you or did you not accept two thousand pounds?”
“That sum again! I don’t understand you.”
“Mr. Eldon—do you remember Mr. Eldon?”
She wrenched her mind from the disastrous present and recalled the name. “Your clergyman companion in Portugal.”
“Mr. Eldon paid your guardian, Mr. Waring, two thousand pounds. In exchange you agreed to relinquish any claim to my hand in marriage, to release me from any promise.”
“Impossible. I never heard such a thing. You never even mentioned marriage. You asked me to be your mistress.” Despite all the indecent proposals she had received since, the memory of the proposition from the young man she had adored so madly still had the power to pierce her with shame. So innocent had she been, it had never occurred to her then that a man would offer anything but marriage.
“Mr. Waring said you had agreed to the settlement and the money was to be used for your future dowry.”
“This is the first I ever heard of it. You’re lying.” He had to be. Yet his voice rang with the candor she’d once admired in him.
“No. Waring accepted the payment on your behalf.” He stepped forward to stand only a couple of feet from her and met her eye to eye, the intensity of his stare demanding the truth. “How can you not have known? Didn’t you receive the money?”
Tessa’s mind reeled and she could barely remain on her feet. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. “Why would I accept a paltry amount?” she asked, gathering her indignation and coating it with sarcasm. “You’re one of the wealthiest men in England, in Europe for all I know. Surely the adventuress you believe me to be would have demanded more to renounce such a prize.”
“I didn’t think you knew how wealthy I was.”
His simple words deflated her. “No. I had no idea. I knew you weren’t poor, I suppose, but I never thought of money.” She blinked hard. “Only of how much I loved you.”
“Good God, Tessa.” He extended a hand as though to come to her, but she shook her head. “Apparently your guardian knew who I was. The typical English tourist couldn’t raise such a sum on short notice and Eldon said Waring negotiated hard on your behalf. He said you complained that I had insulted you and would accept no less.”
“I never said a word to Mr. Waring about your proposition.”
The truth flickered into her mind. “Joshua,” she said, hardly aware she spoke aloud. She sank down, just catching the edge of a sofa.
“Joshua?”
Staring at the floor she reached back into the past. “Mr. Waring’s son. I told him.”
She’d come home starry-eyed that night and told Joshua, who was the same age and her closest friend, that she and Max were in love and she expected him to offer her marriage at their next meeting. But Joshua’s indiscretion hardly mattered now. The elder Waring, her guardian who was supposed to care for her interests, had deliberately ruined her chance to make an advantageous marriage.
Max crouched down and reached for her hand, cold in his warm, firm grasp.
“Why wouldn’t Mr. Waring have wanted us to marry?” The question was more to herself than to Max. She feared she knew the answer. She had been aware that Waring’s port wine export business had been in difficulties, but soon afterward the company had prospered due to a new influx of capital. An “investment,” she had no doubt, from the deep coffers of the Hawthorne family.
“I can’t answer
that.” He looked down and ran a forefinger over the back of her nerveless hand. “I wasn’t of age. It would have been difficult to find a Protestant clergyman in Portugal who would wed us without my mother’s permission.” He spoke with hesitation, as though examining the question in his own mind. “I was too naïve to realize it, but I’m sure Mr. Waring was not. He must have thought it a safer bet to take the money Eldon offered.”
Was their parting, then, the result of a misunderstanding brought about by her guardian’s greed? Waring had later proven eager to exploit her talent for his own profit, and thereby driven her to elope with Domenico. Yes, she could credit his duplicity.
“So I concluded that you must have been aware of the difficulties.” Max leaned forward and his eyes were dark and warm, as she remembered them. One part of her wanted nothing better than to sink into his embrace and forget everything that had kept them apart for so many years. “I believed you preferred to get what you could from our acquaintance.”
She snatched away her hand and snapped to her feet, almost knocking him to the floor. “A fine opinion you had of the girl you claimed to love.”
“I didn’t want to believe it, but how could I deny the evidence?”
His excuse dispelled any urge to throw herself into his arms as he stood upright. “By meeting me as we had arranged and asking.”
“You came to the churchyard? It never even occurred to me that you would.”
“Of course I did. I thought I loved you.” She folded her arms to fend off his attempt to take her hand again. “But don’t concern yourself. I didn’t pine for long. How could I regret the loss of one who treated me so?”
“I was a stupid young fool. I’m sorry, Tessa.”
“You may address me as Madame Foscari,” she said, raising her chin and curling her upper lip.
“Please forgive me.”
“Forgive you? Forgive you? What good is forgiveness now?”
“I can’t bear to think how I misjudged you. I need your forgiveness.”
His plea plucked at her heart but she resisted. It wasn’t as though they could turn back the clock to that time of perfect joy. Summoning her powers as an actress, she immersed herself in the role of wronged woman. “The past perhaps, I might ignore,” she said with ice in her tone. “By now what happened in Oporto is a matter of supreme indifference to me. But I can never forgive what you have done now, in London.”
Secrets of a Soprano Page 11