Simply Unforgettable

herself fully in her life there and her work as a teacher. She was going to forget about Mr. Blake—it was unfair to try to force herself into welcoming his interest when she felt no regard for him beyond a mild gratitude. She was going to forget about beaux altogether.

Most of all, she was going to forget about Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair.

She thought about the music she would sing and tried to get her mind prepared. Her only wish was that she could sing in the drawing room rather than in the music room. The latter seemed just a little too magnificently formal for a relatively small family entertainment. However, she supposed it would look different with the panels shutting it off from the vaster ballroom.

“Miss Allard,” the earl said suddenly, addressing her along the length of the table, “it has seemed in the last few days that it would be just too selfish to keep your performance all to ourselves. And so Lucius has invited some friends to join us after dinner in order to listen to you. We considered that the surprise would please you. I hope it does.”

Some friends.

Frances froze.

She did indeed mind. She minded very much.

This was London.

“How splendid!” Great-Aunt Martha exclaimed. “And how very thoughtful of you both.” She beamed first at the earl and then at the viscount. “Of course Frances does not mind. Do you, my love?”

How many were some? Frances wondered. And who were they?

But her aunts, she could see, were fair to bursting with pride and happiness. And the earl could not have looked more pleased with himself if he had been holding out to her the gift of a diamond necklace on a velvet cushion.

“I will be honored, my lord,” she said.

Perhaps some meant only two or three. Perhaps they would all be strangers. Surely they would, in fact. She had not been here in three years.

“I knew you would be pleased,” the earl said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “But the honor is all ours, I assure you, ma’am. Now. You will not wish to be fussed with having to be sociable to other guests for the next little while. You will wish to relax quietly before you sing. Lucius will escort you to the drawing room while the rest of us proceed to the music room. Lucius?”

“Certainly, sir.” Viscount Sinclair got up from his place farther along the table and extended an arm as Frances rose from her place. “We will join you in half an hour?”

Frances set a hand on his sleeve.

The dining room and drawing room were not on the same floor as the music room. No particularly noticeable sounds were coming up from below. Nevertheless, Frances had an uneasy feeling that there would be sounds—of people—if only they were to descend the staircase.

“How many people are some friends?” she asked.

“Already, Frances,” he said, opening the door into the drawing room and ushering her inside, “you are sounding annoyed.”

“Already?” she said, turning to face him. “I will be even more so, then, when I know the answer?”

“There are people with a quarter of your talent who would kill for the sort of opportunity with which you are to be presented tonight,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“Then give the opportunity to them,” she said, “and save them from having to commit murder.”

He cocked one eyebrow.

“And what sort of opportunity?” she demanded to know.

“I daresay you have not heard of Lord Heath,” he said.

She stared mutely. Everyone had heard of Lord Heath—everyone who was musically inclined, anyway.

“He is a renowned connoisseur and patron of music,” he explained. “He can promote your career as no one else in London can, Frances.”

That was what her father had once said. He had been planning to bring her to the baron’s attention, though he had said that it would be very difficult to do since everyone with even a modicum of musical talent was forever pestering him to listen.

“I have a career,” she said, “and you have taken me away from it in the middle of a term under largely false pretenses. I will be returning to it within the next day or two. I need no patron. I have an employer—Miss Martin.”

“Sit down and relax,” he told her. “If you work yourself into a fit of the vapors, you will not be able to sing your best.”

“How many, Lord Sinclair?” she asked him.

“I am not sure I can give you an exact number,” he said, “without going along to the music room and doing a head count.”

“How many? Approximately how many?”

He shrugged. “You should be glad,” he said. “This is the chance for which you have waited too long. You admitted to me yesterday that this was both your dream and your father’s.”