Free Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville Page A

window. Privacy was impossible in a house filled to bursting, but they were a yard or two away from any eavesdroppers.
    “Yes, my lord?” she said, letting go of his arm and putting her hands behind her, exerting every muscle to appear calm and relaxed, the opposite of the way she felt. She had to tilt her chin to see his face, still grave, still inscrutable. “Well?”
    He said nothing. With only a foot or two of space between them she sensed his tension. Or perhaps only her own. His gaze evaded hers and headed down, over her mouth, her chin, to her neck and the exposed area of her upper chest. Was he ogling her? It seemed unlikely. He had yet to display a gleam of admiration and she could see nothing lascivious in his eyes. What did he want? His silence accelerated her mounting panic. She took a step backward.
    “That necklace,” he said finally, his voice almost hoarse. “I know where…”
    Everyone knew where she acquired it, and doubtless everyone thought they knew what she’d done for it. No one but Max Hawthorne had the ill manners to say so. In another second he was going to accuse her of bedding Napoleon Bonaparte. She stepped back again and sensed the nearness of other guests. He was going to imply she was a whore again, and once again people would hear him.
    Pressure grabbed her chest like a giant fist and the room and all its inhabitants dissolved into a blur of light and color. Heat flushed her bare shoulders and neck and her fingers tingled with fear. One hand clenched tight enough to feel her nails digging into her palms through her glove as the other snatched a glass from the grasp of an astonished bystander.
    Her aim was never very good with her left hand. The crystal wine glass spun over his shoulder, hit a silk brocade drapery and slid to the floor, miraculously unbroken. But the gesture wasn’t entirely in vain. A carmine stain spread over Lord Allerton’s white linen neckcloth and gray embroidered waistcoat.
    As usual, the violent motion drove back her panic. The world came back into focus and her ears regained their function, the noise of the rout intensified by exclamations of shock from the guests. Tessa pinched her lips tightly, ashamed of her behavior, and furious with Max for provoking a scene she’d meant to avoid. Then she noted the avid glee of the onlookers and her actress’s pride came to the rescue.
    No one ever accused La Divina of not giving the audience what they wanted. She lifted her chin to an arrogant angle, cast a dismissive glance around the circle of spectators, then turned to her cousin who had pushed through the crowd to reach her side.
    “I trust I didn’t hit you, Jacobin.”
    Jacobin looked thoroughly amused. “How could you have done that at Lydia Sackville’s house, of all places? London will be talking of nothing else tomorrow. I should have sacrificed Anthony’s Chinese bowl.” She surveyed her green silk. “Not a drop on my gown, but I can’t say the same for poor Allerton.”
    Eyes like coal bored into Tessa over the shoulders of a couple of people who were dabbing at Max’s spoiled clothing with their handkerchiefs. He didn’t say a word but if looks could singe she’d be burned to a crisp.
    She wanted to run away and weep, but she never cried. It was bad for her voice. Just as she stood arrogant in the face of provocation to maintain the aura of the operatic goddess, she also had to guard the vocal cords that were the foundation of her fame and fortune.
    She would not weep but she could strategically withdraw. She was about to suggest to her cousin that it was time to leave, when her hostess appeared, wearing a broad smirk.
    “Dear Jacobin,” Mrs. Sackville said. “How good of you to bring your cousin to my little rout.” She turned to Tessa. “Signora Foscari. Please come and look at the rest of the house. We must determine the best room for your recital.”
    Reminding herself how much she needed the fee for the engagement, Tessa let herself