Secrets of a Soprano (15 page)

But as Tessa had always known, the alluring prima donna was the role she played off the stage as well as on. This outfit felt closer to Tessa—not Teresa Foscari—as she was inside. It suited her current mood and new determination to make her own decisions.

She opened her jewel box and removed the Tsar’s diamonds. The cameos presented her by Napoleon weren’t worth much. Besides she greatly preferred the delicate necklace to the gaudy magnificence of the Russian gift. Most of her other jewels had been sold to pay Domenico’s debts. The diamonds were her insurance and it was time to claim it. She folded the necklace, bracelets, brooch and tiara in their black velvet wrappers, placed them in her largest reticule and summoned the carriage.

*

Examining the receipts
the morning after a full house was a new experience.

“Look at these numbers, Max.” Simon didn’t bother to conceal his glee. “And the boxes. Almost all the subscribers have paid. We must discuss expanding the repertoire.”

While relieved about the financial picture, Max couldn’t share his high spirits. He had heard about La Divina being booed off the stage. The newspapers had been unseemly in their elation at her downfall and not one had pointed out that La Divina, even on a bad day, was a greater artist than any singer in London. To hear genius was a privilege and she didn’t deserve such a reception. He could guess how she must have suffered, listening to the jeers and heckles of the fickle audience.

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 talent. 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.