A Match of Hearts: A Regency Romance Read online

  Zanthe paid no heed at all to the last part of this speech. She interrupted him now, saying, ‘Your offer?’

  He shook his head as though to clear it, frowning. ‘What?’

  ‘You said, “if you had accepted my offer.” What offer? You never made me an offer.’

  ‘Never made you an offer? Nonsense! Of course, I did.’

  ‘No you didn’t. I think I should have remembered if you had. Eight years isn’t that long.’

  ‘But—did your father not tell you I—? I wrote and made him a formal offer for your hand. When I visited your aunt’s house that morning, I was informed you had declined it.’

  ‘Declined it!’ She lifted her hands to her cheeks, her eyes wide with horror. ‘And you believed him?’

  He shrugged. ‘I had always thought the prize out of my reach.’

  ‘So that was why you went away! Oh! He told me that he had demanded to know your intentions and you had said that you had none.’

  He looked a little amused. ‘The Machiavellian old devil! I make him my, rather belated, compliments. An inspired solution to the problem.’

  She was not listening. ‘So that last evening—we were talking at cross-purposes the entire time. You thought I had refused you, and I thought you were jilting me.’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘Oh, Jarvis, if only I had known. I should never have married Brookenby, never.’

  Without turning, he reached out a hand behind him, and she clasped it. ‘I am glad we know the truth now, sweet Zanthe. But it makes no odds, you know. We are still forever parted.’

  ‘No, I won’t accept that.’

  He turned then and bowed over her hand, lifting it to his lips. ‘I’m afraid you will have to, Lady Brookenby. Because I have no intention of offering for this little hand—ever again.’

  Four

  ‘Dash it! Is the doorknocker never still?’ Young Mr Sydney, who had looked forward to a quiet morning nursing a sore head, had winced at the sound of a carriage clattering up the crescent and now, as a smart rat-tat-tat sounded on the door, he held his head in his hands, groaning.

  ‘Not since that morning in the Pump Room.’ Zanthe pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘Launceston would not tell me what hold he has over Mrs Weatherspoon. I would love to know, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I wonder he took the trouble. You were not so very well acquainted with him before you married Brookenby, were you?’

  Zanthe fell silent remembering. Waltzing in his arms, stolen moments in a moonlit garden, reverent kisses that grew more and more ardent until she ran from him, frightened, not of him but of herself.

  ‘No, not so very well.’

  The butler had opened the front door. They heard the sound of voices. ‘One of the hordes of your admirers, I suppose,’ Perry said with a long-suffering sigh.

  She held up her hand, laughing a little. ‘Not one of mine; Margery’s!’

  The door opened, and the butler announced, ‘The Reverend Mr Cholmondeley and Miss Cholmondeley.’

  Zanthe rose and held out her hand warmly to greet them. She still found them a droll pair, especially the lady, but she could not but respect their simple piety and palpable goodwill.

  ‘Will you not sit down here by the fire, Miss Cholmondeley? How very kind of you both to come and see us in this dreadful weather. How it does pour down!’

  ‘Ah yes’ sighed the Reverend. ‘That is Bath for you, I fear.’

  ‘Indeed,’ echoed his sister. ‘One must always carry an umbrella in Bath, you know.’

  Zanthe laughed. ‘I had not thought anywhere could be wetter than Lincolnshire, but I was mistaken. Since we have been here, I have noticed that, while there is nowhere more delightful in the sunshine, there is nowhere more dreary in the rain.’

  As they conversed amiably, moving on from the weather to a concert that the twins were getting up to benefit the unfortunate, Zanthe noticed that the Reverend appeared somewhat distrait. He looked up hopefully whenever footsteps were heard outside the door, and his consequent disappointment was comical to behold. After about ten minutes, his patience was rewarded as Margery Brookenby came into the room with studied nonchalance.

  It was instantly apparent to Zanthe that the last ten minutes had been spent by Margery in changing into a more becoming gown and a hasty rearrangement of her hair. She wore a long-sleeved round-gown of burgundy crepe, with black beading across the modest décolletage and a deep trim of black, gold, and crimson embroidery around the hem. Her head was adorned with a majestic black satin cap with a deep lace frill and lappets that fell to her shoulders. When Mr Cholmondeley stood to greet her, her cheeks flushed so as to match her gown, but her brown eyes grew so soft and luminous that Zanthe thought she looked quite transfigured. She watched them greet each other with all the indulgence an elderly chaperone might feel towards young lovers.

  ‘Miss Brookenby, well-met indeed,’ uttered Mr Cholmondeley, his Adam’s apple bobbing agitatedly.

  ‘But not “by moonlight,”’ said Zanthe, amused. ‘You should arrange it so, Sir.’

  ‘Nothing,’ averred the Reverend with fervour, ‘would give me greater pleasure.’

  ‘Oh hush, Zanthe,’ admonished Margery, gently. ‘Do not pay any attention to her, Mr Cholmondeley. She is a sad rogue, I fear.’

  But Mr Cholmondeley was uninterested in Zanthe’s roguishness. He said, ‘We have come to beg your assistance in organising our little concert. It is to be held at the Lower Rooms, you know, and we have great hopes that Signora Villella, who is currently residing in Bath, will consent to perform for a—er—nominal fee. We would be so grateful if you would give us your aid in approaching her.’

  ‘I would, of course, be happy to do anything in my power but, forgive me, how do you imagine I can be of assistance to you?’ Zanthe was honestly puzzled.

  ‘We had observed, Lady Brookenby, that you are acquainted with Viscount Launceston. He is, I believe, a very great friend of la cantata lirica, and we hoped he might put in a word. If you would be so good as to introduce us.’

  Could anyone really be so unworldly? wondered Zanthe. If the Reverend were unaware of the true relationship between the Viscount and the newly-arrived singer, he was certainly the only person in Bath to be so ill-informed.

  She had little doubt that Launceston was flaunting his mistress in the eyes of the respectable in order to convince her that their love was dead and irrevocably buried. She had not the smallest intention of allowing it to remain so, but, as she was well aware, a man in the throes of a fit of nobility must be handled carefully. It would, she thought, be useful, as well as exquisitely humorous, to force that dissolute nobleman into charitable works in the company of such an innocent as the Reverend.

  She favoured Mr Cholmondeley with a charmingly artless smile. ‘Why, of course. I should be delighted.’

  ‘Capital, capital! I can see that you and Miss Brookenby will be invaluable to our crusade.’

  ‘Crusade?’

  ‘The great crusade of our age, Lady Brookenby! The crusade against poverty, ignorance, and vice! If we can but vanquish the first two of these fearful adversaries, the third will fall to our sword without a blow.’ Mr Cholmondeley’s voice took on a ringing quality as he made this little speech. She felt real conviction in his bearing and was hardly surprised to see her sister-in-law looking at him with worshipful eyes.

  ‘If my sister doesn’t like to approach her, I’d be happy to,’ remarked Parry, startling Zanthe, who had forgotten he was in the room. ‘Glorious creature, ain’t she?’

  ‘She has a very beautiful voice,’ agreed the reverend gentleman in his normal, mild tone.

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of her voice.’ Parry grinned and winked at his sister. ‘Dash it—I envy Launceston, by God, I do!’

  Zanthe interposed quickly, ‘Parry! Pray remember your company.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, Cholmondeley. Still, I daresay being a parson don’t make you blind. That hair—those eyes—’

  M
r Cholmondeley gave a little cough and then said with a certain dignity that rather abashed that crude young gentleman, ‘I have a great respect for the lady’s artistry, but I have learned to value the beauty of the soul more than mere superficial attractions.’ His eyes rested tenderly upon Margery, who blushed, quite unresentful of a comparison that might reasonably have wounded the vanity of a less modest female. ‘The latter we see all around us; the former is rare indeed.’

  ‘It is perfectly possible to find both in the same individual, Sir,’ remarked Zanthe rather tartly. Margery might not resent the implication, but she did. Then she was sorry for her spurt of ill-temper, for Mr Cholmondeley appeared confused and retreated into his shell for the rest of the visit.

  The arrival of the prima donna in Bath had, at least, cleared up one mystery that had perplexed Zanthe. The Viscount was the last man in the world she should have expected to waste his time in a respectable watering place. Now all was explained. Signora Villella was engaged for a series of concerts during the Season and would be in Bath for at least three months before returning to her native Italy. It seemed reasonable to expect that Launceston would remain in town for as long as his inamorata.

  ‘If you can’t get him back in three months, you don’t deserve to be happy,’ she sternly told her reflection as she dressed in front of the mirror for the singer’s concert the following night.

  Five

  Zanthe felt a little less certain of success when she returned to the Royal Crescent that evening. Although she had previously seen Signora Villella driving in an open carriage drawn by four, handsome, matched greys with silver harness and plumed headdresses, and at a distance walking with her hand upon Launceston’s arm in Sydney Gardens, she had not felt the full force of the prima donna’s magic until that night.

  Fiammetta Villella was by no means in the first blush of youth. It was her boast that she had performed in the opening production of the Teatro San Ferdinando in Naples, which had taken place in seventeen-ninety-one and, therefore, unless she had been a child prodigy, she could not be less than forty years old. But age was an irrelevance, which she superbly distained. Her magnificent figure, uncorseted and leaving nothing to the imagination, was a little voluptuous for English tastes, but no fault could be found with the perfect ivory oval of her face, her flashing eyes, or her classical and deceptively patrician features. The only silver to be seen in the heavy masses of her black hair was a long pin that held the thick coils in place. As she took the stage and stood for a moment, allowing the company to drink in her gorgeousness, there was a murmur of admiration.

  Then she opened her lovely mouth in song, and her appearance mattered less than nothing. The exquisite, heart-breaking notes of the Contessa’s lament from Le nozze di Figaro: Dove sono i bei moment (Where are they, the beautiful moments) filled the concert hall, and Zanthe was not the only woman struggling to hold back her tears.

  From Mozart, she moved on to Giulia's aria Il mio ben from La Scala di Seta and finished the first half of the programme with a hauntingly beautiful rendition of Mr Purcell’s If Music Be The Food of Love.

  It was during the interval, as they sipped lemonade and ate little drop cakes, that Zanthe observed the Viscount lounging against a pillar, looking as if he were longing for something a little stronger than lemonade in his glass. Across the room, she caught Mr Cholmondeley’s eye and received an encouraging little smile. With a sigh, she murmured in Parry’s ear, ‘Pray, go and speak to Launceston. You owe him an apology, and I would like to have speech with him.’

  ‘I don’t see why I should apologise to him,’ argued Parry. ‘I didn’t ask him to haul me off over his shoulder like a sack of coal.’

  ‘Nevertheless, oblige me. You know I cannot go to him. All the Bath quizzes are watching.’

  By the time Parry returned with the Viscount at his heels, Zanthe was respectably chaperoned by the Cholmondeley twins and scandal retreated, once more defeated.

  ‘Lord Launceston, I do not think you are acquainted with Miss Cholmondeley and her brother, the Reverend Cholmondeley.’

  ‘No, I have not had that honour.’ He bowed to Miss Cholmondeley and shook her brother’s hand. ‘Ah, Miss Brookenby. I did not see you there. Are you enjoying the concert?’

  Margery, who had, in her customary fashion, shrunk into the background at his approach, answered gruffly, ‘Never heard such singing. Like an angel.’

  ‘I shall relay your compliments to the Signora. She will be delighted.’

  ‘Do not suppose she will care what I think.’

  ‘Why should she not?’ cried Zanthe, impatient of this self-deprecation. ‘Your opinion is worth as much as anyone else’s.’

  Margery smiled. ‘To you, perhaps.’

  ‘And to anyone of discernment,’ said Launceston.

  Margery glanced up quickly into his face, convinced he must be roasting her; but his eyes were kind. He smiled at her and then turned to her sister-in-law, saying, ‘Why am I summoned to your side?’

  ‘Well, the case is that Mr and Miss Cholmondeley are getting up a benefit concert and were hoping that Signora Villella might be persuaded to sing. It is in aid of—what did you say the concert is in aid of, Sir?’

  ‘Fallen women,’ answered the Reverend, solemnly.

  The Viscount gave a shout of laughter, causing several people to turn around and stare at their group indignantly. ‘A cause close to her heart.’

  Mr Cholmondeley did not pretend to misunderstand him. ‘You may laugh, my Lord, but in my experience it is not to “good” women that we look for compassion towards their fallen sisters. A lady of the Signora’s experience, on the contrary, is only too well aware that, given a choice between virtue and hunger, virtue is often dispensable.’

  ‘There is no fate worse than death then, you think, Mr Cholmondeley?’

  ‘Have you ever seen the effects of famine, my Lord?’

  ‘Yes, I have, and I agree with you.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Very well, I shall ask her. I think it very likely she will consent, but do not puff it off until you hear from me.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord. I felt sure we could depend upon your good offices.’

  Launceston stared at him. ‘Good God, why? Do you take me for a philanthropist? You are mistaken, I assure you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ the Reverend assured him serenely. ‘But you have the look of a good man. It is unmistakeable.’ He bowed and, turning to the ladies, said, ‘Let me refill your glasses with this delightful beverage.’

  Launceston’s gaze followed the vicar as he threaded his way through the crowd. ‘What an extraordinary fellow.’

  ‘Is he not?’ Miss Brookenby was also watching the vicar. ‘I have never met so pure a soul.’

  ‘I have,’ said Zanthe, squeezing her sister-in-law’s hand. ‘My love, if ever a match was made in heaven, this one is.’

  ‘Oh hush. There is no thought of—he has not—it is too late—’

  ‘Too late for happiness? Never!’ Zanthe cast a challenging look at the Viscount and repeated, ‘It is never too late. Don’t you agree, my Lord?’

  ‘In your sister’s case, certainly.’

  Miss Cholmondeley, who had been chatting with an acquaintance, now rejoined the conversation, and Launceston lounged away to resume his place on the outer edge of the furthest bench from their party.

  Two days later, Zanthe received a curt note from the Viscount. The Signora would certainly consider singing at the benefit concert, but she would prefer to be asked personally, by Lady Brookenby. If Lady Brookenby would call at the Signora’s apartments in Pulteney Street alone, she would be happy to discuss the matter.

  ‘Certainly not! Not to be thought of,’ pronounced Margery. ‘A young woman like you cannot call upon a—a—creature such as that. I shall go.’

  ‘I thought you said she was an angel.’

  ‘I said she had the voice of an angel. Quite different.’

  ‘Well, I am a married woman, or was, and you are a
mere chit with no experience. I do not see why it is more proper for you to call upon her than for me.’

  ‘A mere chit of one-and-forty? Yes indeed. Now do be sensible, Zanthe. Do you want to start people saying you are fast again? It is bad enough that you were seen talking with Launceston at the concert; now you wish to be paying calls upon his—his—’

  ‘His mistress? Yes, I do wish it. It would seem she has a curiosity to meet me, and I most certainly have a curiosity to meet her. And, in any case, how should anyone know it is Signora Villella that I am going to visit? There must be several sets of apartments in the building.’

  ‘If you are determined to go, then I shall accompany you.’

  ‘No, you will not. See where Launceston has underlined alone. Stop fussing, Margery. What harm do you think could possibly come to me?’

  ‘Not to your person, but to your reputation.’

  ‘Do you really think one visit to a lady of questionable virtue will destroy it? Are we not planning to give a concert for the benefit of a whole bevy of such ladies?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And do not you and Miss Cholmondeley go into their hovels to browbeat them into virtue and plenty?’

  ‘Not browbeat—we encourage them—that is all. And it is not the same thing.’

  ‘The only difference I see is that the Signora is wealthy and those poor souls are not. Nor, if I were you, would I attempt to brow—encourage—her to be virtuous. I believe Italians are very quick to resent an insult. She would probably have a—what is the word—a vendetta—against you before you knew it.’

  Margery looked up quickly in alarm. ‘You do not think she carries a stiletto do you? You must not go! It is not safe!’

  Zanthe broke into a peal of laughter. ‘You have been reading Mrs Radcliffe again.’

  Margery blushed and began to laugh. ‘It is your fault with your talk of vendettas. Oh, I do not know why I trouble to talk to you. You will do just as you wish. You always do.’