Secrets of a Soprano Read Online Free PDF

interrupted the revolting display. “Would you be good enough to find a seat in the rear for my mother? I really need to be near the stage. For professional reasons, you know.”
    Without giving Somerville a chance to argue, he abandoned marquess and mother and ensconced himself in the center of the second row of gilt chairs in the Storringtons’ drawing room. Exactly two minutes later an immaculate figure slipped into the seat next to him.
    “You owe me a favor, Max,” Somerville drawled.
    “I knew you’d be able to get away from my mother more easily than I, and I was right.”
    “And of course,” the marquess continued, “you thought to steal a march on me by placing yourself closer to La Divina.”
    “I was rather under the impression that you were ahead of me in that particular game.”
    Somerville shrugged. “I don’t kiss and tell, but I can assure you that the lady is, indeed, quite beautiful.”
    Max said nothing and tried to look as though he didn’t care. Judging by the other man’s knowing smile he didn’t succeed.
    “And after all, my dear Max, your interest is purely professional.”
    *
    “Will you go out, please, and see what the audience is like?”
    Sempronio withdrew his gaze from a painting of well-dressed rustics herding their sheep and looked at Tessa, surprise crinkling his normally placid face. “Are you nervous?” She rarely suffered from stage fright, and certainly not before a private recital.
    “Not about the performance. Never mind, I’ll look.” Tessa made a final adjustment to her hair at the mirror over the fireplace. She’d decided against wearing the tiara on this occasion. The Russian necklace, bracelets and double-eagle brooch looked opulent enough against her red velvet gown, cut very low in front and lavishly trimmed with gold lace. Quite enough to announce to the London cognoscenti that Teresa Foscari was a force to be reckoned with.
    The small saloon in the Storrington house led into a huge drawing room where a stage had been constructed for the occasion. The chatter of numerous voices ascended to a roar when Tessa passed into the larger room. Her view of the attendees—and theirs of her—was blocked by a screen placed to hide the doorway between the two rooms from the audience.
    Briefly she closed her eyes, chiding herself for her unwonted nerves. It was unlikely he’d be here. If he was, she probably wouldn’t recognize him after all this time. And if she did, what of it?
    Before she could talk herself out of it, she set her eye to the slit at the fold of the screen. Almost every gilt chair was occupied and more people were standing at the back. It was always good to see a full house and this was an especially brilliant one. Under the splintered light cast by a hundred candles in cut-glass chandeliers, Tessa looked out over rich gowns and glowing jewels contrasting with the more severe tailoring of well-dressed men. Undoubtedly the cream of London society was gathered here, the very people she needed to impress if her visit to London was to meet her ambitions. But she wasn’t thinking of her future or her responsibilities. Her gaze scanned well-bred faces, reddened with heat or alcohol, powdered or rouged, pretty, handsome, or commonplace beneath elaborate coiffures and fashionable crops.
    Then she saw him.
    Her knees trembled and she held onto the doorjamb for balance. He was older now but unmistakably the shy young man who had blushed when he brought a posy to the Oporto opera house and told her she had the voice of an angel. He had the same coal-black hair, cropped short because it wouldn’t take a curl; the sharp cheekbones and hawkish nose; the olive-toned skin, once tanned to a deep bronze by the Portuguese sun but now paler in the early spring of England; the grave mouth which could broaden into a generous smile and light up an otherwise austere countenance.
    It had been such a very long time. But even after eleven years, during which she’d been