Simply Unforgettable

great in no time at all. No, let me correct that ridiculous assertion. You do not need me for that—you already are great. But I can make you the most sought-after soprano in Europe, I make bold to claim, if you will put yourself into my hands. I must enjoy this feeling of slight power while I may, though. It will not last long. Very soon you will not need either my patronage or anyone else’s.”

His words served up with them a healthy dose of reality.

It was too much to bear. Too much light had come flooding into her life in too short a time. She felt a desperate need to take a step back, to hold up a staying hand, to think. She would have given anything at that moment, she felt, to have seen the calm, sensible face of Claudia Martin in the crowd nearby. She longed for Anne and Susanna.

She was aware at the same time of Viscount Sinclair beside her, silent and tense, his eyes burning into her.

“Thank you, Lord Heath,” she said. “I am deeply honored. But I am a teacher. I teach music among other subjects at a girls’ school in Bath. It is my chosen career, and even now I long to get back to my pupils, who need me, and to my fellow teachers, who are my dearest friends. I love singing for my own satisfaction. Occasionally I enjoy singing for an audience, even one as large as this. But I do not wish to make a career of it.”

There was certainly truth in what she said. Not the whole truth, perhaps, but . . .

“I am sorry to hear it, ma’am,” Lord Heath said. “Very sorry indeed. I am afraid I misunderstood, though. When Sinclair invited me here tonight, I thought it was at your request. I thought you wished to be promoted. If you do not, I understand. I have a stepson with an extraordinarily sweet voice, but my wife keeps a very firm rein on my ambitions for him. Quite rightly so—he is a child. I respect your decision, but if you should ever change your mind, you may call upon me at any time. I have been exceedingly well blessed to have heard the purest of boy soprano voices and now the most glorious of female soprano voices all within five months.”

Frances looked up at Lord Sinclair after they had moved away.

“I may yet find myself shaking you until your teeth rattle, Frances,” he said.

“Because I do not share your ambitions for me?” she asked him.

“Because you do,” he retorted. “But I am not going to argue with you anymore. I am not going to manipulate or bully you ever again, you will be delighted to know. After tonight you will be free of me.”

She would have reached out and set a hand on his sleeve then, though with what motive she did not know, but other people crowded about, wishing to talk with her, congratulate her, and praise her performance. Frances smiled and tried to give herself up to the mere pleasure of the moment.

And there was pleasure. There was no point in denying it. There was something warm and wonderful about knowing that what one did, what one loved doing, had entertained other people and more than entertained them in a number of cases. Several people told her that her singing had moved them, even to tears.

And then some of her pleasure was dashed as Viscount Sinclair presented her to Lord and Lady Balderston and the young lady with them.

“Miss Portia Hunt,” he said.

Ah.

She was exquisitely lovely, with the perfect type of English rose beauty that Frances had always envied when she was growing up until she realized that she could never be like it herself. And in addition to her loveliness, Miss Hunt displayed an excellent taste in clothing and a perfect poise and dignity of manner.

How could any man look at her and not love her?

How could Lucius . . .

Miss Hunt’s smile was gracious and refined.

“That was a very commendable performance, Miss Allard,” she said. “The headmistress and teachers at your school must be proud indeed of you. Your pupils are fortunate to have you as their teacher.”

She spoke with well-mannered condescension—that latter fact was immediately apparent.

“Thank you,” Frances said. “I am honored to have the opportunity to shape the minds and talents of the young.”

“Lucius,” Miss Hunt said, turning to him, “I shall take the liberty of accompanying Amy upstairs to her room now that the concert has ended.”

Lucius. She called him Lucius. And clearly she was familiar with the family and with Marshall House. She was going to marry him, after all. He might deny it, clinging to the strict truth of the fact that he was not betrothed to her yet, but here was reality right before Frances’s eyes.

And did it matter?

“You must not trouble yourself, Portia,” he told her. “My mother will send her to bed when she thinks the time appropriate.”

Miss Hunt smiled again before turning away to join her parents, who were now talking with Lady Sinclair. But the smile, Frances noticed, did not quite reach her eyes.

Frances turned to Lord Sinclair to find him looking back at her with one eyebrow cocked.

“One of those excruciating moments sprung to life from one’s worst nightmare,” he said. “But behold me still alive and standing at the end of it.”

He was speaking, she supposed, of the fact that she and Miss Hunt had come face-to-face.

“She is lovely,” she said.

“She is perfect.” His other eyebrow rose to join the first. “But the trouble is, Frances,