Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville Read Free Book Online Page A

Allerton?” he asked. “I thought you’d had enough. But never mind. I have discovered something very interesting.”
    Max raised his brows and the marquess continued. “I was already fairly certain, but a good look at that bracelet confirmed my suspicions.”
    “A gift of the Tsar, payment for services rendered,” Max muttered with a sneer.
    “Either the Tsar of all the Russias is a pinchpenny,” Somerville said softly, “or La Divina’s visited the pawnbroker. Those diamonds are made of paste.”

CHAPTER FOUR
    “Miss Johnston has too much appearance of self-enjoyment and good living, to accord with our ideas of a tragic heroine, who is generally doomed to endure all the vicissitudes of life, in a perpetual round of starvations, imprisonments, swoonings, and all the train of operatic miseries. This lady however makes no pretensions to acting, and being more skillful perhaps in wielding a knife and fork than a dagger, wisely avoids attempting what must appear ridiculous, and contents herself with walking on the stage or off, lifting occasionally an arm or an eye, and frowning or smiling as in duty bound.”
    The Examiner
    W hen he presented himself in his mother’s small drawing room, days later than promised, Max’s mood was no better, though for a different reason. The first night of opera at the Regent had enjoyed a full house, but the debut performance in England of Beethoven’s sublime Fidelio had been received with what Max could only describe as muted rapture. The opinion of the newspapers was equally tepid.
    Lady Clarissa was alone, without any of the hangers-on who normally surrounded the heiress, or the elderly female relative who resided with her as a matter of propriety but was rarely seen. She reclined on a Sheraton sofa and waved one of these offensive journals at him as he entered the room that was small in name only, almost the size of one whole floor of Max’s house.
    “My poor Max,” she said jovially, without further greeting. “I’ve just finished reading the Examiner ’s account of your first night. It’s very wicked but has Miss Johnston’s appearance precisely right. Wielding a knife and fork! Yes indeed! She really shouldn’t be permitted to appear in male attire. How came you to engage such a—large—female for a breeches part?”
    “When I saw the lady last year there was rather less of her,” Max admitted. “But,” he continued bravely, “her voice is very fine.”
    His mother gave him a look that said he hadn’t fooled her and turned back to the newspaper. “The only defect in Miss Johnston’s voice,” she read, “is a piercing shrillness in her upper notes, which produces rather an unpleasant sensation in the ear.”
    Damned with faint praise, and unfortunately the reviewer was absolutely correct.
    “You know, dear boy, I would have enjoyed the evening more if there had been elephants.”
    “Elephants?”
    “Yes. Or perhaps a bear or two.”
    “The Regent is an opera house, not Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
    “Such a pity. What about a shipwreck? I always enjoy a good shipwreck.”
    “Since Fidelio takes place in a Spanish prison one is hardly likely to encounter elephants, bears, or a shipwreck.”
    “No wonder it was so boring!” she concluded triumphantly, waving her newspaper for emphasis. “No elephants. And it’s in German.”
    Apparently having had enough—for the moment—of torturing him, his mother set aside the paper. “Delorme is quite another matter. The man is as handsome as sin!”
    “Unfortunately he is only too well aware of the fact,” Max replied. “Insisted on appearing in a spotless shirt and perfectly arranged hair though his character was supposed to have spent two years immured in a filthy dungeon.”
    “The shirt was torn,” Lady Clarissa said with obvious appreciation, “and offered a quite delicious glimpse of his chest.”
    “Mama!” Max expostulated. “Such comments are unsuitable for a lady of your years—in fact