Lord Weston kept a tight grip on her elbow while he directed her into the box, trying to negotiate around all the gentlemen who wanted to meet her.
Oblivious to the bumping, Lord Weston asked, “Were you able to hear Madame Abney sing in Paris? She reportedly was a favored choice of Josephine de Beauharnais.”
Gabby felt like the air was trapped in her lungs, as if she were confined under water. This reference to Napoleon’s wife. Did Lord Weston know who she was? Gabby had been enjoying the evening despite the public attention. But now fear flitted across her skin causing her to shiver despite the hot, crowded space.
She swallowed and tried to answer in a normal voice. “Tonight is the first time I’ve heard Madame Abney sing. She is a very talented and very dramatic singer.”
Gwyneth smiled at Gabby when they entered the box and patted the chair next to her.
Gabby sat, focusing careful attention to spreading her gown around her feet in order to hide her apprehension.
Lord Ashworth leaned down and whispered to his wife, “You’re more beautiful and definitely more dramatic than any opera singer.”
Lady Gwyneth giggled. “Me? Dramatic? To whom have you been talking?”
Lord Ashworth gave his wife a tender, possessive look that made Gabby look away. She was beginning to like these people. They were good people and very generous in welcoming her, a stranger who was dangerous to know.
Chapter Seventeen
Gabby hurried into her bedroom after the long evening, relieved to finally be free of the demands of polite society. She was a strange combustion of unfamiliar emotions after dinner and the opera. Not being able to speak to Michael, Lord Weston pressing his attentions on her, and the forced gaiety was too much. She had spent hours in the convent longing for the society of witty conversation, beautiful gowns, and handsome gentlemen, but tonight’s experience left only a hollow feeling.
“Mademoiselle, you look tired. The evening was too much?” Melie, her maid, spoke in rapid French. The daughter of a French baron, Melie was left a penniless orphan after the Terror. The young woman had escaped France and now survived by sewing for Elodie’s modiste shop.
Amelia had sent Melie to be Gabby’s maid—a sympathetic gesture that touched Gabby deeply. Amelia had understood how alone Gabby felt in in a new country, in an English household. Having a French maid who had also lived through the terrible time helped Gabby’s homesickness.
“It was a wonderful evening.” It wasn’t a total lie. Gabby had enjoyed hearing Madame Abney sing. The prima donna had a commanding control of her voice and understood the nuances of the music. “But you are correct, I am tired.”
Melie assisted Gabby out of her pelisse. With the satin and lace pelisse draped over her arm, Melie took the garment to be hung. Speaking aloud in French, Melie admired the fine workmanship of Gabby’s clothing.
Gabby sat down in front of the intricately carved lady’s vanity to remove the reticule from her wrist. She opened the delicate blue satin bag for her rose petal lip pomade. Expecting to find extra hairpins and her handkerchief, she felt a slip of paper. She opened the string purse wider and removed the folded sheet.
She unfolded the mysterious note. In bold French script, the words burned through her brain. Your life is in danger. Trust no one. The English are lying to you.
Her heart pounded sharp blows inside her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe.
Returning to the bedroom, Melie asked, “What were the other ladies’ gowns like? As beautiful as yours? I wonder how many were wearing Elodie’s creations.”
Gabby startled with Melie’s sudden appearance. Her hands shook and she struggled to quickly place the note back into the reticule.
She couldn’t think. Her speeding heart resonated in her ears. Her whole world shifted. Desperate to be alone, she wanted to dismiss Melie and examine the note more carefully.
Gabby stood slowly, her knees shaky. To not cause any suspicion, she needed to endure the painstaking nighttime ritual of undressing. Suppressing the need to hurry the earnest maid, Gabby stood still while her mind raced like the furious prestissimo tempo. The long row of pearl buttons in the back of her evening gown would take forever to unbutton.
Gabby already knew she was in danger, but who would send such an ominous warning and for what purpose? A letter in French, a cautioning against trusting the English—the writer must be French. Or was that the deduction the writer intended?
Afraid of harming the fine stitching around each button hole, Melie carefully slipped her finger underneath the fabric before she unfastened each button.
Constrained and frustrated by this newest threat, Gabby fidgeted. What had the French been advising her against? And what had the English lied to her about?
“I won’t be too much longer, mademoiselle. Only two more buttons.”
Of course, Melie wouldn’t miss Gabby’s agitation. And Gabby had felt she was doing a convincing job of standing still. Finally, exhaling a loud sigh, Gabby stepped out of her dress.
“I’ll wear my chemise for now. My robe, please.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
Wrapped in her new silk robe, Gabby sat on the tiny lady’s chair covered in midnight blue satin, perfectly matching the blue damask drapes and bedclothes. After seeing the color of Gabby’s eyes, Gwyneth had been adamant that she stay in the blue room. Gwyneth and Amelia were kind and ingenious women. Gabby couldn’t believe her new friends were lying to her and for what reason or benefit. But which English could the letter be referring to?
Melie began the process of undoing the hairstyle she had earlier spent hours creating. Slowly the maid removed the pins and then the bandeau, then she reached for the hairbrush.
Gabby’s impatience combusted. “It won’t be necessary, Melie. I’ll brush my hair myself.” Gabby tried to sound blasé, but the beating panic made her desperate. She would never be free, never escape Napoleon and his manipulations.
“But mademoiselle, I must brush your locks.”
Melie was new as a lady’s maid and took her position very seriously. “I’ve a headache, Melie. I’d like to be alone now.”
Melie’s cheeks flushed with color. “Yes, my lady.”
She didn’t want to hurt the young woman’s fragile feelings, but Gabby truly couldn’t withstand any more consideration and concern.
Gabby softened her voice and smiled at Melie. “A lady should brush her hair each night, but there are nights when I am too tired to care about the beauty ritual. It will be our little secret.”
“Your hair is shiny and thick, mademoiselle. You needn’t worry if you skip some nights.” Melie’s sunny, heart-shaped face shone back at Gabby in the mirror.
Melie’s diligent efforts to succeed at her new job was a reminder to Gabby that she wasn’t the only one who had suffered and was still suffering from the chaos and violence in France. The innocent always suffered in these wars waged over men’s need for power.
“Melie, you have been a tremendous help, but I’m ready to retire.”
“Of course, my lady. I could make you a tisane to help you sleep.”
“No, no. It’s not necessary.”
“If there is anything else you need?”
“No, Melie, you may retire too. It’s been a long evening for both of us.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle. I wish you a restful sleep.”
When Melie wished Gabby a restful sleep, Gabby felt a giggle rise up inside her. She covered her mouth with her hands. Maybe she was closer to hysteria than she realized. When Melie finally closed the door, Gabby grabbed the reticule and retrieved the note.
She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking while she unfolded the paper. She moved the candle closer to examine the vellum. The writer’s script had dramatic flourishes, most likely the handwriting of a woman.
How had someone been able to place the letter in her reticule without her noticing? She reviewed the events of her evening. She had returned to her room after dinner so tha
t Melie could attend to her toilet. Melie had helped her slip the reticule on her wrist after she had donned her pelisse. And for the rest of the evening the reticule had been securely on her wrist. Only Lord Weston had been close enough to be able to slip a note into her reticule. He was the most likely candidate since it seemed unlikely that her English friends would warn her against themselves.
There had been a brief moment in the crowded hallway when it was possible for another one of the gentlemen to have placed the note. Lord Fenton had stood close to her when she turned to speak with Lord Chalmers. Was it possible he had placed the note? Were they working together and Lord Chalmers had been a distraction?
The only logical suspect was Lord Weston, since he had spent the most time with Gabby. But if he had concerns, why hadn’t he spoken them aloud? And how could she ask him about the English lies without revealing the existence of the letter?
Gabby dropped on her bed, her thoughts spinning with possibilities. She tried to think logically, but the bleak knowledge that she had no one she could trust agitated her. Why had Lucien died? How was she supposed to go on?
She thought of the only person she truly trusted in England. How could she tell Michael when the note implied his friends and family were liars?
Gabby held the note to her heart, trying to stop the dark thoughts from overwhelming her. Tomorrow she wouldn’t be so overwhelmed. Tomorrow she would search for the writer of the note. Tomorrow had to be easier.
Chapter Eighteen
Michael bowed over Madame Abney’s hand. The diva reclined across a purple sofa in a brightly colored, revealing dressing robe. “A pleasure, Madame.”
Michael wanted to bite his tongue. What was he thinking?
Already he couldn’t breathe in the stifling airless room with closed windows. The drawing room, as was the entrance way of her townhouse, was overflowing with heavily scented bouquets of roses, lilies, and freesia. His bouquet from last night, one of many, was lost in the sea of blossoms.
A grand piano was the centerpiece of the room, almost outshining the lounging diva. Michael had learned that the louder and more powerfully constructed piano was replacing the pianoforte. The new piano was known for its effulgent and commanding tone.
The voluptuous lady was definitely not planning a drive in the park by her state of dishabille. The red and purple dressing gown, the same grape color as the divan, was belted loosely around her waist and clung to her rounded stomach and thighs, revealing a generous amount of cleavage. She was exactly the kind of woman Michael had always found attractive—plush and soft. He tried to suppress the thought of his past enjoyment when he thought of his pledge to Gabby. His tastes, it seemed, had changed forever to petite, curvy women. No, just a single petite, curvy woman.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to give you proper attention last night.” Her lips pouted, and Michael’s mind went wild with the implications of her O-shaped lips.
He had only been there five minutes and already he was in a pickle. How was he going to accomplish his mission without…?
He had anticipated a drive around Hyde Park with the diva, not an afternoon of seduction. His plan was to make his association known in the park without committing a real assignation. Or that had been his thinking late last night when he pondered his assignment and how to succeed without betraying Gabby. He wasn’t made of the covert spy stuff that relied on deception and lies and hurting innocent people. And Gabby was the innocent. After all that she’d lost, she needed constancy. And once he could end the charade, he planned to be the constant in her unsettled life.
“Please make yourself comfortable. Brandy and port are on the side table.” Madame stretched back, giving him an eyeful of her womanly flesh.
Bloody hell! He had believed that he had weeks of pursuing the lady before she would expect…
“It is a beautiful summer day, and I had hoped to entice you with a drive in the park, as I said in my note.”
“After my performance last night, I find I really don’t want company or more adoration of my fans. I usually spend my day in leisure before the next performance.” Madame raised one knee, allowing her dressing robe to fall open to a view of her white thigh.
Deciphering Madame Abney’s message didn’t require a skilled code breaker. Her intentions were as clear as Eve communicated to Adam.
“I need to unwind, relieve myself of the tension.” She wiggled and jiggled on the sofa.
Before his trip to France, and Gabby, Michael would have welcomed an afternoon romp with this sultry woman.
She ran her finger along the outer rim of her robe, drawing Michael’s attention to her finger and all that creamy skin.
There had to be a solution to his problem…he knew many men who would wish to face such a carnal challenge. He tried to look away from the woman who smiled slyly at him. How not to meet the lady’s wishes? There had to be a solution. He was considered one of the smartest men in England.
He sat down and crossed his leg. He was at a total loss on how to proceed. There were certain dictates that a gentleman followed in these circumstances, but he wasn’t going to proceed. “I see that your piano is the new grand. Does it have more than five octaves? Fifth interval? Does the more robust sound help you prepare for such an arduous role?” He uncrossed and crossed his legs. “And I must say you performed magnificently last night.” He couldn’t stop himself from talking.
The lady laughed, her tone dark and full, like her singing voice. “You actually know about music?”
“I’m not an artist like you, but I have a slight knowledge of music. My mother was a very talented musician.”
He found nothing stopped the ardor of women more than when men spoke of their mothers.
“You’re an interesting man, Lord Kendal. Come sit here so we can discuss my performance more closely.” She patted the divan next to her luscious hip. He was finding her performance today quite compelling, as long as he wasn’t required to perform a duet.
Michael swallowed. “Of course, I would love to discuss music.”
She gave a rich, husky laugh, the kind that all men recognized and responded to. He preferred a light, tittering laugh and the glittering sparkle in cornflower-blue eyes.
Michael remained seated. “You don’t wish to discuss the complexities of the Giacomelli’s opera? I must say the use of the trills of the horn section were quite interesting, and the repetition of your line truly increased the drama.”
“You are turning out to be not what I had expected.”
He gulped. Not what he wanted to hear.
“I’ve only heard of your talents with the ladies. But you are a man who knows and loves music and is not afraid to speak of his mother. How unique and quite appealing,” she purred.
Oh, holy dung pile. Not what he was trying to accomplish. “Can you describe how you prepare for your role? I’d be most interested to hear how you learn the music. Do you sing from a written sheet or from ear?”
Her lips pinched together. “Is that really what you want to discuss?”
Now he was in it. He knew women and this was no simple question. The lady definitely wouldn’t be pleased if he was seen as rejecting her obvious advances. And if she felt spurned by him, then he wouldn’t be able to accomplish his mission. Blast it. Women were harder to untangle than Greek participles. Give him hieroglyphics any day.
Why was she so hell bent on seducing him? Last night when he went back to her dressing room, it had been filled with gentlemen admirers, including many old titles, and men of wealth and power, all ready to accommodate the woman. Had she gone home with one of them? Should he be suspicious?
He stood and gave her his best dimpled smile, the one that worked miracles on disgruntled ladies. He didn’t want to think about how his smile hadn’t affected Gabby after he had mistaken her for a French dancer.
Madame’s eyes never left his face, but her breath hitched and drew him again to review her abundant plenitude of womanhood.
She slid a
little further back on the divan to give him room to sit, causing her gown to slide further down her shoulder. And dammit, the blasted woman didn’t adjust it. And he was expected to sit next to her.
“Right here.” She patted the spot would easily give him access to all of her.
He used his teasing voice. “But, Madame, we barely know each other.”
“Barely.” She pulled the other side of her robe down. “Which I hope we can remedy today.” She licked her full, lower lip, which was painted a crimson red, and all he could think of was the lush, pink lip of a French minx.
Michael sat down, spreading his legs underneath the low table in front of the divan, trying hard to strike a casual pose, trying hard not to have his hip touch her hip. It was a farce, a ridiculous French farce, which led to thoughts of Gabby and what she would think if she ever learned of this afternoon. His throat felt parched and his palms were sweaty. It was good that Gabby was off with Lady Gwyneth.
Madame Abney’s hand went immediately to his knee. What was wrong with this woman? Didn’t she know anything about subtlety in the art of lovemaking?
Of course not. She was a dramatic diva who sang big, gestured big, and dramatically emoted for hundreds of people. And by the way her lips were parted, she wanted to do some loud singing with him this afternoon.
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “You have the voice of an angel. I’ve had the distinct pleasure of hearing Madame Bianucci. She doesn’t compare to you.” In researching Madame Abney, he had learned of her intense rivalry with the famed Italian opera singer.
Her lips snapped shut and her eyes narrowed. And now all he had to do was fuel the fire of jealousy instead of the fire of passion…enabling him to make his escape.
Suddenly, to his amazement, the door opened. Without any preamble, the stiff butler announced Lady Ashworth, Miss Amelia Bonnington, and Mademoiselle Gigot.
What kind of crack household was this to usher gentle ladies of good breeding into this room, with Madame in a definite state of dishabille?
A Cantata of Love (The Code Breakers 4) Page 11