Free Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville Page B

be let off like a spoil of war. Mrs. Sackville, in a state of elation that such a sensational occurrence had enlivened her soiree, was determined to show off her famous guest.
    Scarcely attending as Mrs. Sackville presented her to a group and reminded them that Madam Foscari would be singing here soon, Tessa glanced over her shoulder at Jacobin, who mimed retching motions. As for Lord Allerton, the last she saw of him was his tall figure sailing through the throng toward the staircase and freedom. She wished she could do the same, though not in his company.

CHAPTER SIX
    “On Friday Signor Rossini’s opera of THE BARBER OF SEVILLE was sung for the first time at the Regent Opera House. The French singer Monsieur Delorme was very fine in the role of Count Almaviva.”
    The Morning Post
    “The Tavistock Opera House on Saturday had a complete overflow from all parts of the House. Long before the curtain was drawn up, great numbers were turned away that could not gain admittance. Madame Foscari sang divinely and received the greatest applause. It is with great pleasure that we recall her genius is the product of an English family.”
    The Morning Post
    M ax hurled the newspaper onto the desk in the manager’s office, scattering Simon Lindo’s neat piles of paper. “She is not English. To my knowledge she’d never even set foot on these islands till a month ago. We’re the ones with the English soprano.”
    A review of the receipts had painted a worsening picture at the Regent. Musicians, craftsmen, and attendants had to be paid, but the money wasn’t coming in. If things didn’t change soon there wouldn’t be enough in their accounts to meet expenses. Accustomed to writing a bank draft for whatever he needed, Max found his financial restrictions strained a temper already severely frayed by another disastrous encounter with Teresa Foscari. He’d like to wring the soprano’s lovely neck, and his mother’s too.
    “Goddamn it!” he exploded. “Why don’t they come?”
    “Patience, Max,” Simon said. “The new opera was well-received by the audience.”
    Max dismissed the offered consolation. “Much good that is when the house is half empty.” His lovely Regent, which he’d designed with such care and lavished with every amenity, had been rejected and he took it personally. He had intended to make London appreciate what opera could be when done to the highest standards, to share with them his pleasure in the most sublime of all theatrical arts.
    London showed every sign of not giving a damn.
    Max folded his arms and glared at the newspapers. The Examiner was even worse than The Morning Post . “I can’t believe what that idiot Mount Edgcumbe wrote.”
    “But you must admit,” Simon said, “that his reservations about our soprano are not without justification.”
    The influential reviewer had opined of Miss Lucinda Johnston’s coloratura that “it were to be wished she was less lavish in the display of her powers, and sought to please more than to surprise.” The fact that he was quite correct in his assessment of Miss Johnston’s tendency toward excessive vocal ornamentation did nothing to make Max feel better.
    Max couldn’t tell Simon what really troubled him. He knew why Lindo was so serene in the face of the depressing box office receipts. Without precisely promising unlimited funds, Max had always given the impression that he would carry the Regent financially until the new house got onto its feet. Simon assumed that if there was a temporary problem meeting bills, Max would step in and advance the cash.
    And he would have but for his wager with his blasted interfering mother.
    “I shall continue my efforts to drum up interest,” he said. “I see that Mrs. Sackville has paid for her box. And I fancy Lady Storrington will be persuaded to purchase one.”
    Simon leaned forward with an arrested look. “Lady Storrington attended The Barber of Seville with Madame Foscari. It was gracious of La Divina