Secrets of a Soprano (17 page)

He must repair the damage he’d wrought. Before he turned his footsteps towards St. James’s Street and White’s Club, he tore down the advertisement for his own opera house. It was only fair.

Starting the rumor that had led, with such spectacular results, to the demise of La Divina’s popularity, had been easy. Reversing the impression proved harder. A few words in his clubs to his least discreet acquaintance was all it had taken for Max’s tale to reach the greater public. Polite indifference greeted explanations of his “mistake.” In desperation Max called on the editor of one of the newspapers most vociferous in its condemnation of Tessa.

“The man had the impudence to suggest she was my mistress,” he complained afterwards to Simon Lindo.

Lindo raised a dark brow. “Was he right?”

“No, damn it. Of course not. Why would you suggest such a thing?”

“I know something’s been bothering you and I’ve heard tales of a confrontation between you and La Divina. In my experience you don’t see that much smoke generated without fire.”

“I’ve been concerned about the Regent,” Max replied stiffly. “As have you.”

Simon shook his head. “It’s been more than that. In my case it’s the money. But that’s not your first concern.”

“I am only sorry we had to purchase our success at the expense of another.” The depth of his remorse couldn’t be revealed without confiding more than he wished to Simon.

“If we served Madame Foscari an injustice, I’m sorry for it too,” Simon said. “I have nothing against the lady. But I can’t regret the result.”

“I didn’t mean things to go this far, only to tarnish the sheen a little.”

“Foscari has always cultivated the newspapers. You don’t think she attracted so much attention by accident do you? Someone spread the stories about the lovers, the jewels, the dramatic fits. Fed the beast you might say. And now the beast has discovered a flaw and enjoys tearing her down.” Simon smiled cynically. “This little affair of the hospital sells newspapers. They won’t give it up in a hurry.”

“You say someone spread the stories. Did she do it herself?”

“Perhaps. But I’d guess it was her late husband, with or without her connivance.”

“What makes you think that? Why would a husband expose his wife’s infidelities?”

“When I worked for Mortimer, he tried more than once to engage La Divina for the Tavistock. Domenico Foscari had total control over his wife’s business and he was the most ruthless negotiator I’ve ever encountered. Mortimer never got close to a reasonable agreement until Foscari died. I saw those letters. You think Mortimer is a bastard? My impression is Foscari was his match, and more.” Simon frowned. “I also had the impression that Foscari was toying with Mortimer. He never intended to come to terms with him. For some reason, he didn’t want to bring his wife to London. Strange, since she could have made a great deal of money.”

Max latched onto one part of Simon’s recitation. If Foscari had been responsible for disseminating stories about Tessa, had he also invented them? The hope subsided almost as soon as it had kindled. A man might use his wife’s infidelities to his own advantage, but surely he wouldn’t make them up from whole cloth.

He returned to the immediate problem. “How can I correct my error if no one will listen?” He looked at Simon, hoping his partner’s greater experience in the theatrical world would produce a solution.

Simon rested his chin on his fist, deep in thought. “I believe her reputation would be restored,” he said, “if she could win the approval and sponsorship of someone of impeccable standing in society. Someone whose opinion no one dares ignore.”

Max knew just such a person. Little as he might relish it, he must ask his mother for a favor.

*

Climbing the stairs
at Tamworth House, Max met one of his mother’s lawyers escaping like a beaten cur. His chances of finding Lady Clarissa in one of her rare cooperative moods looked poor.

“You know I’m not overly fond of singing,” she said to his carefully couched suggestion that she host a musicale. “And why would I wish to patronize Teresa Foscari?”

“I doubt you would,” he replied with all the patience he could muster. “You’ll do it because I am asking you as a favor to me.”

“You’re not thinking of marrying the woman again? I won’t have it.”

“No, Mama. As I just explained to you, at sufficient length that I’m quite sure you understand, it’s a question of honor. My honor.”

“Just give her some more money. It satisfied her before.” She was being provocative. He’d already told her not a penny of her money had ever reached Tessa.

“Money isn’t enough.” He’d give almost anything to walk out of the room. Instead he gritted his teeth and hoped he wouldn’t be reduced to begging. “To be sure, I expect you to pay Madame Foscari a handsome fee for her appearance at your musical evening, but receiving her is more important. I must and shall repair the damage I’ve done to her reputation.”

“And if I agree to hold the largest gathering at Tamworth House in years, in
honor
of this opera singer, what will you do for me in return?”

“I’m not getting married. Not to Teresa Foscari, nor to anyone else.”

“You will when I win our bet.”

“Restoring Madame Foscari’s popularity will increase your chances of winning. Business at the Regent has improved since her disgrace.” It was an argument he’d far sooner not have to make. He was well aware of what he risked.

Lady Clarissa’s eyes grew beady as she considered the implications. Still, she had to wring another advantage out of him.

“I shall invite a number of suitable young ladies to the event.” She warmed to the idea. “And you shall meet them. You shall treat them civilly, give them a chance. You might very well take a fancy to one of them.”

“Hah!”

“You’ll have to marry one of them in little more than a year, so you may as well start thinking about whom you prefer.” She smiled gleefully. “I am quite prepared to take your choice into consideration, as long as she is suitable.”

“How very good of you.”

“Never say I don’t play fair.”

“I accept your terms,” he said, shaking his head in surrender. It couldn’t hurt to greet his mother’s guests, regardless of age or sex, with courtesy. Not even his mother could force him to propose to one of them.

“And…” There had to be an “and.”

“And you will ignore Madame Foscari.”

“Ignore your honored guest when the object of the evening is to show her favor? I don’t think so.”

“Very well. You will accord her no more than the barest politesse. I won’t have you using my house to pursue that woman. Make her your mistress if you insist, but not on these premises. In fact it would be better if she left after her performance. I’m not in the habit of entertaining those hired to entertain.”

“You know why that isn’t good enough. It’s essential that she be seen to gain your approval. It’s not as though she isn’t of good birth. Lady Storrington is her cousin.”

Lady Clarissa sniffed. “It’s all very well for a flibbertigibbet like Jacobin Storrington to receive an opera singer. I have standards to maintain.”

“I can’t think of any standards you’ve ever maintained except your own. And you always enjoy making others accept them.”

Lady Clarissa gave up the argument. It was some time since she’d given a large entertainment and he could almost see the invitation list running through head. Especially, alas, the names of young unmarried ladies. She didn’t even bother to quibble over the huge figure he suggested for Teresa Foscari’s fee.

If Somerville had been correct that the Tsar’s diamonds were false, then Tessa might well be in financial difficulties, though he couldn’t imagine why. But she’d been on her way to Ludgate Hill with the diamonds in her reticule. Ludgate Hill, where London’s most fashionable jeweler was situated.

“One more thing,” his mother said. “Since this soirée is to include some rather dubious characters…” He closed his eyes and fought for calm. “…I insist you invite that deliciously handsome tenor of yours, Monsieur Delorme. I might as well have something interesting to look at while
that woman
is singing.”

*

“But he apologized?”
Jacobin prompted. Tessa had poured her tale into her cousin’s sympathetic ears over tea and pastries in the countess’s private sitting room.

“Some apology!” Tessa replied, burning with renewed indignation. “He said he felt responsible for what I had become.”

Jacobin gave her characteristic Gallic shrug. “Typical man. He bungled it. They hate to apologize and when they do they expect you to be grateful and make a big fuss of them.”

“Grateful! He wasn’t the one who had to wait for three hours in a freezing churchyard.
He
isn’t the one who was accused of being a greedy foreigner by every newspaper in London.
He
isn’t the one who was jeered off the stage after a remarkably fine performance, though I say it myself.”

Jacobin replenished their teacups, adding a slice of lemon to Tessa’s and milk and sugar to her own. “I agree. It’s not good enough. He needs to grovel.”

“Holy Saint George! I hate men.”

“They are impossible, yes, but they can be taught.”

“Does Lord Storrington apologize?” Tessa asked, curious. Domenico certainly never had. Their marriage, after the initial honeymoon, had been an endless battle in which her husband usually emerged the victor. He would demand and she would acquiesce, until he asked for something she would not, could not accede to.

“Oh yes! And I’m always very nice to him afterwards.”

Being “nice” to Domenico had achieved nothing. The last time she’d tried she ended up with the nightmares that had returned and plagued her every night so she scarcely dared sleep.

“How are you, Tessa?” Jacobin asked. “You don’t look well. Has it been very bad at the theater?” Obviously her troubles were affecting her appearance.

“A little better. The audience is still thin but I haven’t been booed again.” As far as Jacobin knew her public reputation was Tessa’s only problem. She’d confided nothing about her financial straits.

Tessa reached for her reticule. “I did receive this letter today.”

Jacobin perused the bold handwriting on heavy cream paper, nodding vigorously and emitting hums of approval as she turned over the page and read to the end. “But this is excellent! Lady Clarissa is a powerful force. Not a single member of the
ton
will refuse her invitation, or dare cut you in her house.”

“I’d rather throw it back in her face.”

Handing back the note, Jacobin shook her head. “Much as I appreciate the urge, you’d be a fool to do so. A recital at Tamworth House will be quite an occasion. It’s an amazing place.”

“What kind of woman is she?”

“Most people are terrified of her but I like her. She’s very entertaining and not at all stuffy. And as I said, where she leads there isn’t a soul who will dare not follow.”

Tessa knew she couldn’t refuse Lady Clarissa’s offer, if only because the eye-opening fee for a single evening’s work was almost enough to clear her outstanding bills.

“Very well. I shall accept,” she said. She didn’t have to do so happily.

“This is Lord Allerton’s doing, you realize, don’t you? Lady Clarissa would never have thought of holding a musical evening by herself. Max is trying to make amends.”

Tessa would have none of that. She read from the letter. “
It will be a pleasure and a privilege to hear you sing and to receive you at Tamworth House
. Why shouldn’t this grand lady wish to have Europe’s greatest soprano perform for her guests?”

Jacobin chuckled. “By all means, believe that if it makes you feel better. I’m glad to hear your spirits revive. I was worried about you.” She waved a plate of golden-edged, aromatic delicacies in Tessa’s face. “And for God’s sake eat something. I shall feel mortally insulted if you won’t even taste my fruit tartlets.”

Tessa only hesitated for a moment before accepting a delicious morsel of pastry filled with wild strawberries under a rose-tinted glaze. She thought of Domenico’s constant admonitions against gaining weight and losing her allure. She bit into the tartlet and relished every morsel.