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He needed to put even more space between them. He took a couple of steps towards the door and was pleased to see that she began to settle back into her chair. ‘Better that you remain here, madame, and compose yourself,’ he said gently. ‘You will allow me to summon your maid?’
This time, she nodded.
He put a hand to the door latch, waiting. His eyes remained fixed on her perfect oval face. He would not soon forget the image she made. There was a quality of serenity about her which touched him deeply.
‘Thank you, sir. Pray ask for Teresa, the maid of Madame Pietre.’
Ah! So she was Italian. Somehow, that pleased him. ‘At once, madame. I shall bid you farewell now, if you permit.’ He bowed and made to leave the room.
‘A moment, sir.’
Leo turned back. A tiny frown marred her white brow.
‘Will you not tell me your name? I would know to whom I am indebted.’
Leo smiled across at her. She was demonstrating a fine lady’s impeccable manners, now that the door was partly open. ‘Lord Leo Aikenhead, at your service, madame,’ he said, bowing as he would to a duchess. It seemed fitting.
‘You are an Englishman?’ She sounded more than a little surprised.
‘Yes, madame.’
‘An Englishman who speaks perfect French,’ she said, changing in an instant to near flawless English. ‘You will forgive me, Lord Leo, if I say that I am surprised to encounter such a man.’
‘And you will forgive me, I hope, Madame Pietre, if I express surprise that an Italian lady should speak my native language so well. After all, we have been at war with most of Europe for decades.’
‘That has not prevented some of your compatriots from making their way to Venice, sir. One learns to speak many languages there.’
Madame Pietre, from Venice. A pearl of a woman from the pearl of the Adriatic. The words came into his mind unbidden, but he knew instantly that he would always remember her in that way. She should wear a collar of priceless pearls around that swanlike throat, glowing against her skin.
Leo’s hand gripped the latch fiercely. His body was urging him to go to her, to lift her gloved hands to his lips, to discover, from the distance of a breath, whether her complexion was as delicate as it appeared, and her lips as luscious. His body was tempting him to treat this gentle lady as if she were a mere strumpet. He forced himself, instead, to bow in farewell. He was not a blackguard like Beck. He would not allow her extraordinary beauty to undermine his sense of honour.
‘If you will permit me, madame, I shall take my leave of you now. Your maid will attend on you in a moment.’ He forced himself to step out into the corridor and fasten the door behind him, leaving the lovely Italian alone with his wine and his fire. For a second, he leant back against the door and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Was that her subtle scent in his nostrils? It was so faint that he could not be sure if his senses were playing tricks on him. Yet he could almost have sworn that, for a fraction of a second, he had smelled the scent of a wildflower meadow in spring.
He berated himself for a numbskull. Even if his senses were right, it was of no import. She was Madame Pietre. Probably a married lady. And a lady Leo was unlikely ever to encounter again. No doubt she was bound for her home in Italy, while he was fixed in Vienna, probably for months. Just as well, in the circumstances, he decided. He could not afford to be diverted into wooing a virtuous lady from her husband’s bed. He had done it often enough, of course, when the lady was ready to be wooed, but it took both time and money, neither of which he had at present. He must take a mistress here in Vienna—his overeager reaction to the beautiful Venetian had amply demonstrated his needs in that direction—but he would content himself with one of the many courtesans in the city. In that regard, Madame Pietre was far above his touch.
Sophie held her breath until the door had closed firmly behind him. Then she raised her glass of wine with a slightly shaky hand and took a long swallow to ease her parched throat and racing pulse.
What on earth was the matter with her? Why was she reacting so to a man who was simply offering help to a lady in distress? Beck she could easily deal with. She had been a little frightened, to be sure, but only because she imagined she was going to have to cry out for assistance. That would have created a distasteful scene in a public inn and sullied her reputation even further. Her life was already difficult enough, for her would-be lovers assumed, as did all the polite world, that to be a professional singer was to be a whore. High class, perhaps, but still a whore.
Sophie had accepted jewels from the Baron von Beck, at Verdicchio’s insistence. As a result, the Baron believed he had rights over her person, even though she had twice rejected his advances. She had thought to be rid of him by leaving Italy. Was he following her to Vienna? She did not know, but their meeting had proved what she already suspected: the Baron was both dangerous and vindictive. He was now prepared to take her by force if he could. And if he could not, he was like to seek other ways of having revenge upon her.
Sophie shuddered and pulled her chair a little closer to the comforting warmth of the fire. If Beck were to be in Vienna while Sophie was performing there, it would be dangerous to go out alone or to have private meetings with gentlemen, even gentlemen like Lord Leo Aikenhead, whose motives had been of the very highest. His kindness had warmed her more than the fire.
The contrast between the two men was stark. Beck, as ever, had been immaculately and expensively dressed, but nothing he wore could give him the effortless presence of Lord Leo Aikenhead. It was not merely that Lord Leo was taller and of a more athletic build. Beck’s meanness of spirit was written in his features. Lord Leo, by contrast, had the open, easy air of a man who was respected by everyone. He would not need to assert his rank in order to be obeyed.
What was his rank? Sophie was not absolutely sure, but she fancied he was possibly a younger son. She had encountered quite a few such men over the years, all of them eager to know her better, and none of them plump in the pocket. There was no reason to suppose that Lord Leo was any different. Still, she could always make discreet enquiries of the embassy staff, and if—
Good grief! She was losing her wits!
She shook her head in an attempt to clear her unruly thoughts. Truly, she could not afford to allow Lord Leo’s attractive person to cloud her judgement. He was only a man. And she had long ago learned to be wary of all men, even men who rescued ladies in distress. Besides, she might never lay eyes on him again. He might not be going to Vienna. Even if he were, why should he attend performances by the Venetian Nightingale? He had the air of a man who took his pleasures outdoors, with horse and dog and gun, not a man who frequented salons and musical soirées.
She would do well to forget him. It was much more important to concentrate on saving enough to pay for her escape from Verdicchio. A little siren voice whispered that, if she had accepted the suit of one of her many admirers, she would have had money aplenty, and a protector against Verdicchio, besides, but she knew she could not do such a thing. Just the thought of being touched by them made her feel soiled. She had refused, thus far, to sell her body. She would not sell it now, when her freedom was almost within her grasp.
One day, perhaps, she would bestow it. But as a gift, a gift of love. And thus far, she had met no man worthy of that gift.
No, not even Lord Leo Aikenhead.
Chapter Three
‘We do have to go, Leo. Everyone will be there. Even the Russian Emperor is expected to attend.’ Jack’s lips twitched into a hint of a cynical smile.
Leo grunted. ‘If so, this singer must be beautiful as well as talented. His Russian Majesty is reputed to be something of a connoisseur of women.’
Jack pursed his lips. ‘I wonder, though. They call her the Venetian Nightingale. Sounds more like a ravishing voice but plain brown feathers, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Possibly. Shan’t know till we see her. What’s her name?’
‘No idea. The invitation just called her the Venetian Nightingale.’
‘Hmm. We’d best be on our way if we’re to catch any of this nightingale’s trilling, since the venue is half a day’s march from here.’ He shook his head in mock disgust. ‘Damned inconvenient to be lodged this far from the centre.’
Jack shrugged off the implied rebuke and crossed to the window to look down into the square below. ‘No sign of the carriage. What the devil is keeping the man? I ordered it for fifteen minutes since.’
‘Probably not his fault, Jack. With tens of thousands of visitors in Vienna, it’s sometimes impossible to move in the streets. And with a carriage…’ Leo shrugged and settled himself into the corner of the striped damask sofa, as if he suddenly had all the time in the world. ‘Pity we don’t have an attractive woman in the Honours,’ he said after a few moments. ‘Dominic always said we needed a Queen to stand alongside Ace, King, Knave and Ten. Now imagine if we had a Queen to pique the Russian Emperor’s interest. A little pillow talk might provide just the information we need at present. Don’t know nearly enough yet about what his intentions are.’
Jack turned back from the window. His face was full of animation. ‘What about this Venetian soprano, Leo? If she has the kind of beauty to attract the Emperor, maybe we could…er…enlist her services in our cause? She’s an opera singer, after all, so she’s more or less a courtesan. If she’s prepared to sell her body to him, perhaps she could sell his secrets to us at the same time.’
Leo ran his fingers over his chin and frowned thoughtfully at the empty fireplace. ‘Might work, I suppose, though we’d have to touch the embassy for the cash to pay her. Let’s look her over first.’
‘Don’t take too long about it, Leo. We might miss our chance. The Emperor is said to change his women as often as he changes his coats. You’d have to make sure you greased her palm before the Emperor started greasing—’
‘Point taken, Jack,’ Leo interrupted sharply, shaking his head as he rose to his feet. ‘A word of brotherly advice,’ he added, frowning. ‘I’ve a deal more experience with the fair sex than you do, you’ll admit. And I’ve found that it pays to treat them all as if they were true ladies. Even members of the muslin company. This nightingale of yours may earn her living on her back, but she has probably had no choice in the matter. If you took that silver spoon out of your own mouth once in a while, you’d have more understanding of how the less fortunate are situated.’
Jack coloured and hung his head a little.
Leo shook his head at his own outburst. Their lack of real progress here in Vienna was beginning to make him as surly as a bear. ‘Confound it, I’m beginning to sound as prosy as Dominic.’ He gave a snort of embarrassed laughter.
Jack grinned, his normal good humour quickly reasserting itself. ‘I’d rather take your advice than his when it comes to women, though. Not a good picker, our noble brother. Whereas you seem to stay on good terms with all the females you encounter, even your past mistresses.’
‘Not the same as picking a wife, brat, which I haven’t done and don’t intend to start upon. As for Dominic, I admit he made a mull of his first marriage, but this time may be different.’
‘This time?’ When Leo would not respond, Jack added, ‘Is that why he was so eager to be off to Russia?’
Leo pursed his lips. It was not his secret to share, though it sounded as if his slip of the tongue had simply confirmed what Jack already suspected. Sometimes brother Jack was too sharp for his own good.
Jack’s eyes widened. ‘So I was right. But surely Dom can’t marry a girl who’s served in the Russian cavalry? She’s probably warmed the beds of half the Russian army.’
‘You know, Jack,’ Leo said grimly, taking a step forward and gripping his brother’s shoulder tightly, ‘I doubt that. Very much. And if you have hopes of seeing your next birthday, I strongly suggest you forget any and all slights on that particular lady’s honour. Unless you fancy being on the receiving end of Dominic’s fists, or looking down the barrel of his pistol.’
Jack blanched visibly, then reddened. He looked incredibly young, Leo decided.
‘I’m sorry, Leo. I didn’t think. I—’
‘That’s your problem, Jack. You speak and you act without thinking of the consequences. Good God, man, you’re twenty-four years old. High time you learned some responsibility, don’t you think?’
Jack pulled himself very erect and looked his brother straight in the eye. ‘I gave you my word about the gambling, Leo. Do you doubt me?’
‘No, not on that,’ Leo said hastily, and in a gentler tone. ‘But on other things, you—It would be wise to be a little more careful, that’s all.’
‘And to grow up, I suppose.’
‘No need to get testy with me, brat. You know I have your interests at heart. As has Dominic. It’s just that—’ At the sight of Jack’s ever redder face, he stopped abruptly. He truly was turning into a miserable old greybeard. ‘Where the devil is that carriage?’ He strode across to the window and began to drum his fingers on the pane. ‘Damn the man. We’re going to be late.’
Sophie gazed round at the applauding audience, but she did not smile. She needed to maintain her concentration for this last aria. She had sung well, but this would be the pièce de résistance. The Russian Emperor, sitting in the front row, had been clapping enthusiastically so far. If she could truly impress him, she might secure an invitation to St Petersburg. That would be a godsend. The Russian capital was very rich, and a long way from the countries she so desperately wished to avoid.
Verdicchio looked round from his place at the pianoforte, waiting for her signal. The cellist and violinist were also waiting. She took a long, slow breath and let her eyes travel around the salon. She gave Verdicchio the signal and raised her chin, allowing the low, passionate notes of the cello introduction to flood her being with the essence of the music. After a few bars, the violin joined in, answering the cello like a bird fluttering over and under denser, darker branches. And then the pianoforte, soft and sonorous—
The noise of the door opening at the rear of the salon, and of raised voices, shattered Sophie’s concentration. How dare they? With a gasp of rage, she whipped round to reach for the glass of water on the table behind her, leaving the audience to gaze at her back. The music stuttered to an untidy stop.
After a few moments of breathing exercises, Sophie was once more in control. The commotion in the salon had subsided into silence. Slowly, majestically, she turned back to the sea of waiting, expectant faces. She refused to focus on any of them. Not even the Russian Emperor. Adopting her haughtiest posture, she gazed out over their heads and allowed herself to think only of the tragic heroine whose role she was about to interpret.
At her nod, the cello began to sing. And as the harmonies of the introduction rose and swelled, Sophie opened her throat and began her aria on a single, perfect pianissimo.
The brothers’ tardy arrival was the height of bad manners, Leo knew. Jack had been so sure they could slip in unnoticed at the back of the grand salon. He could not have been more wrong; their timing was as bad as it could possibly be. It seemed that the Venetian Nightingale had been just about to sing, though she had turned away so rapidly that Leo had not caught even a glimpse of her face. But her ramrod-straight back and stiffly held neck told the whole audience that she was absolutely furious about the interruption to her performance.
Leo held his breath, waiting for her to turn back to face the room. Beside him, in the back row of spindle-legged gilt chairs, Jack began to whisper something. ‘Stubble it!’ Leo muttered. Confound the boy, would he never learn?
The Nightingale had mastered her temper, it appeared. Very slowly, and holding herself with the pride of a queen, she turned, automatically arranging the flowing folds of her bronze-green silk skirts, while she gazed out over the heads of all of them. Diamonds glinted at her throat and on her wrists. The diamond drops in her ears sparked fire against the heavy black hair coiled against her neck.
Madame Pietre! His damsel in distress from the country inn!
She nodded to her accompanists like a duchess to a servant. Leo could not take his eyes from her. She was glorious. She was burning with anger. And she was nothing at all like the virtuous matron Leo had believed her to be.
Mad, confusing ideas tumbled through his brain. Perhaps she could indeed be persuaded to act the spy on behalf of the Honours? Perhaps that luscious body—which was every bit as delectable as Leo had imagined when he had first seen her wrapped in that plain cloak—had already graced the beds of half the crowned heads of Europe? Leo’s pulse began to race at the thought of this extraordinary woman in some lucky man’s bed. The rest of his body was responding, too. It was urging him to possess her, whatever the cost. He discovered, in that moment, that he cared not a fig for emperors and kings, or for whatever valuable information the Venetian Nightingale might discover by sharing their pillows. It was Leo’s pillow she had to share!
And then the Nightingale began to sing. Lord Leo Aikenhead, who had never cared above half for music, was instantly transported to a land of dreams, and ravishing beauty and of profound, heart-rending tragedy.
Sophie made a deep curtsy to the Emperor Alexander, as etiquette required.
He immediately took her gloved hand to raise her to her feet. ‘No, madame,’ he said in his immaculate French, ‘it is I who should bow to you. Such an exquisite voice. And such emotion. I swear that half your listeners were near to tears. I have never heard such a touching rendition of the tragic heroine.’
‘Your Imperial Majesty is more than generous.’ Her admirers in Venice had been gentlemen or aristocrats; never monarchs. Sophie smiled shyly up at the Emperor. He was much taller than she was, with light brown, slightly receding hair, fine side-whiskers, and a ruddy, cheerful face. The many stars and orders on his dress uniform caught the light every time he moved. Yet, in spite of that daunting splendour, he gave the impression of geniality. And he was showing knowledgeable appreciation of an artistic performance.
He shook his head, returning her smile. ‘No, indeed. Your singing, madame, has been the musical highlight of my visit to Vienna. May I hope to have the pleasure of hearing you sing again, on another occasion?’
‘I am engaged for a number of performances in Vienna, your Majesty. Perhaps your Majesty—’
‘Ah, yes. Yes, indeed. As you say, madame. But may I hope that there is still some free time, in your busy schedule of engagements, for performances to a more select audience?’
Sophie swallowed. Did he really mean what she suspected? He would certainly not be the first to try to turn a recital into a more carnal assignation. But he was the Emperor of All the Russias. A mere opera singer could not openly question his motives. ‘Maestro Verdicchio has arranged all my engagements, your Majesty,’ she said, a little uncertainly. ‘If your Majesty wishes, I could—’
He pursed his lips a little, as if trying to hide a smile, and reached for her hand once more, raising it for a gallant kiss. ‘I shall look forward to hearing more of that radiant voice. For the moment, madame, I must bid you adieu.’ With an elegant bow, he strode away to join his host on the far side of the huge salon.
The other guests, in deference to the presence of the Emperor, had stood at a discreet distance. Sophie now found herself alone. Little groups of aristocratic women were gossiping quietly, some of them nodding in Sophie’s direction. She could very well imagine what they were saying. It seems that his Russian Majestyhas decided to bed the Venetian Nightingale, just as hedallies with every other beautiful woman he encounters.
Sophie felt a tiny shudder run down her spine. How did one refuse an Emperor who had too much finesse to proposition a lady directly? If Alexander of Russia asked Verdicchio to organise a private recital for him, it would be a gross insult for her to decline.
‘Madame Pietre? May I compliment you on your magnificent performance?’ The low voice came from just behind Sophie’s shoulder. Something about it was familiar, as if—
For a second time, her hand was taken and raised to a man’s lips. He stood before her. Lord Leo Aikenhead. Her champion. And the man who had been troubling her dreams for more than a week. She could feel the colour rising on her neck. This man had thought her a lady, but now he knew what she was. Would she see contempt in his eyes? She did not dare to look.
‘You must be thirsty after singing for so long, madame. A glass of champagne, perhaps?’ With the ease of an old friend, he tucked her hand under his arm. ‘I saw that you were besieged by half the men in the audience, and then by the Emperor, but not one of them had the wit to offer you more than fine words. I am hoping that my more practical offering will encourage you to keep me company for a little.’ He drew her towards the side of the room where a waiter stood with a huge salver of champagne flutes.
She had misjudged him. He was still treating her as if she were a lady. Sophie allowed herself a tentative smile and relaxed a fraction.
‘Much better,’ he said gently. ‘If you will forgive my remarking on it, madame, you were as tense as a spring. I could feel it, even in your fingertips.’ As if to emphasise his words, he placed his free hand over her fingers for a second or two. It seemed to be intended as a friendly, reassuring gesture from a gentleman to the lady he was escorting.
But for Sophie there was nothing in the least reassuring about it. The shock ran up her arm like a stab of pain, so sharp that she almost gasped aloud. She should not have dared to relax, not even for a moment. Not with this man.
It seemed he had not noticed her body’s reaction this time. He had turned aside to take a champagne flute from the tray.
‘Try this, madame.’ He put the glass into her unresisting fingers. Then he caught up another for himself and touched it to Sophie’s. ‘To the Venetian Nightingale. Whose spellbinding performance has been a revelation to me.’
Sophie forced herself to nod in acknowledgement of his words. He was watching her carefully as he drank, his deep blue eyes scrutinising her face intently. What could he see there? Disconcerted, she took a large swallow of her champagne. Too large. The bubbles caught in her throat. She choked.
‘Water for madame!’ Lord Leo snapped to the waiter. ‘At once!’
The servant rushed to obey. Lord Leo set down both champagne flutes and led Sophie to an alcove at the side of the salon. She sank gratefully on to the red-velvet bench seat, her coughing now more or less under control. But when she tried to speak, no words came out.
Lord Leo looked round impatiently for the servant and almost snatched the glass from his hands. ‘There’s barely enough water there to wet the inside of the glass,’ he said testily. ‘Go and fetch more. Quickly now.’
Sophie drank it in long gulps. It soothed her bruised throat. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, in something akin to her normal voice. Had she done any damage? Verdicchio would swiftly disown her if she could no longer earn enough to keep them both in the luxury he felt to be his due.
‘You permit, madame?’ Lord Leo indicated the vacant space beside her.
Sophie nodded. ‘That is the second time you have rescued me, Lord Leo.’
‘I think not, madame. On this occasion, I fear that I was the cause of your difficulty. Ah, here is what you need.’ He indicated to the servant that he should place a small table at Sophie’s hand and put the decanter of water within easy reach.
Sophie busied herself with refilling her glass, slowly, so that she had time to think. What did he want of her? At their first meeting, she had doubted that Lord Leo Aikenhead was a connoisseur of music. He had said nothing so far to change her mind. Mischievously, she murmured, without turning back to him, ‘That last aria was one I seldom perform in gatherings such as this. The heroine’s plight is so very tragic. Audiences seem to prefer the lighter pieces, as a rule. Is that your taste also, Lord Leo?’
His response was initially a little hesitant, but he soon recovered his normal confidence. ‘I must tell you, madame, that your final aria was more touching than any I have ever heard,’ he finished.
‘You are too kind,’ Sophie responded automatically. Was his compliment sincere? Rashly, and against her better judgement, she risked a glance up into his face to find those fierce blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that was almost frightening. She found herself recoiling a little. The elemental force of him was too powerful to withstand. He was dangerous, and yet she was drawn to him. Too close and he would burn her up.
She must keep her distance from this man.
She set down her glass with a sharp click. ‘If you will excuse me now, sir, I think that Maestro Verdicchio wishes to speak to me.’
