Sophie nodded obediently. Verdicchio was right, in some ways. She probably would become the toast of the city. Unfortunately, the toast might have nothing to do with her talent as a singer.
‘Then you do accept? Sophie?’
‘Of course. I will perform at a private recital for his Russian Majesty. That is to say, I will sing for him. I take it you will be accompanying me?’
‘Er…the final arrangements are yet to be made. I imagine that I will be invited to act as your accompanist.’
Without an accompanist, she would refuse to perform at all. She had absolutely no desire to find herself alone with the Emperor.
‘Come, let me introduce you to Major Zass.’
Sophie shook her head. ‘There is no need. I know I can trust you to agree all the details on my behalf, Maestro.’ She touched his arm lightly.
He smiled again, his momentary flash of temper transformed by her flattering words.
‘If you will excuse me now, Maestro,’ she said, returning his smile, ‘I shall be in the retiring room. One of those clumsy young bucks stood on the hem of my gown, and I need to have it pinned up.’ She did not wait for his reply. She simply walked quickly out into the anteroom and towards the stairs.
There were knots of men talking quietly in corners and in groups around the centre of the room. They might have been plotting—many certainly looked like conspirators—but they were probably only gossiping. Vienna was alive with gossip, especially now that it was so full of foreign royalty. She determined to ignore them all and lifted her skirts to make her way through them.
A single name, spoken almost in a whisper, rang in her ears like a death-knell.
She caught her breath. She could not have heard aright. Surely, it was impossible? But she had to be sure. She continued serenely across the room to the foot of the staircase, then turned suddenly, as if she had forgotten something, and made her way back to stand behind a pillar, a yard or so away from the two men in Prussian uniform whose voices had caught her attention.
‘Yes. Killed in a duel. Must have been at least six months ago.’
‘Von Carstein? You are sure?’
‘Absolutely. Heard it myself from one of the seconds.’
‘And so who inherits the title?’
The first man laughed. ‘Why, no one. Nothing to inherit but a pile of debts. If the old man hadn’t been killed in that duel, he’d probably have blown his brains out. He had too much pride to face the world as a penniless wreck.’
The second man grunted. ‘I agree. We are well rid of him. He was a disgrace to our class.’
‘Aye. I heard it said that he sold his daughter to pay his gambling debts.’
‘Truly? He was a blackguard, but surely even he had too much sense of his own rank to do such a heinous thing?’
‘It was only a rumour, my friend. Nearly fifteen years ago. Didn’t believe it myself. He had no son, of course. Only the one daughter. She probably died. No doubt some malcontent concocted the rumour to blacken the Baron’s name.’ He chuckled. ‘Not that it needed much blackening. He managed that very well for himself.’
‘Mmm. Perhaps it would have been different if he had sired a son.’
‘Aye, a man needs a son. A nobleman, especially. Daughters are useless. And a burden besides.’
Sophie could not bear it. Her legs had turned to water beneath her, and she had to lean against the pillar for support. She must get away from these men, from their hateful words. She staggered a few steps towards the shadows.
‘Madame Pietre? You are unwell. Allow me to help you to a chair.’
Lord Leo! Dear God, why did it have to be Lord Leo, the man she had insulted? Sophie nodded dumbly, wishing him away. She did not dare to raise her eyes to his face. Let him continue to think she was merely a weak woman, fainting from the heat. If he looked into her eyes, he would read how her soul had been seared by that casual dissection of the truth about her family.
Lord Leo took her weight on his arm and gently led her across the floor to the relative seclusion under the staircase, where a number of chairs had been placed. He guided her into one of them and stood alongside, waiting for some kind of response from her.
Sophie’s whole body tensed. What could she say? She knew she must still look quite horror-struck. Desperate, she clasped her hands in her lap, focused her gaze upon them, and began to practise the breathing exercises she always used to calm her nerves before walking out on stage.
The familiar routine was balm to her shattered senses. In moments, she was almost back in control.
‘I am afraid we are all suffering from the heat here, madame. It is no surprise that you were overcome.’
Sophie nodded slightly, still not looking up. She would not tell a direct lie. Not to this man. She had already done quite enough to humiliate him. So why was it that he, of all people, was now prepared to treat her with kindness? In rejecting him, her pride had spoken, and loudly. Her purpose, to make him suffer as she had been made to suffer, had been achieved. Why then did she not feel triumphant? Was it because her conscience was troubling her? After all, he had only assumed, as all society did, that Sophia Pietre was for sale.
Her actions had been vindictive and dishonourable. However low Lord Leo’s opinion of her, it was deserved. And it was nowhere near as bad as Sophie’s opinion of herself.
Guilt-ridden and now thoroughly embarrassed, she could not think of a single thing to say to him. She berated herself for a coward. Either she must speak to him, or she must leave.
He should not have followed her. Considering how she had delighted in mortifying him, he certainly should not be looking to her comfort. But that stricken look on her face had hit him like a blow. She was suffering, and not from the heat. Why? What had been done to her? He was sure that she would never say, particularly not to him.
She was refusing to look at him. If she did not speak to him soon, he must leave. Just as he straightened to walk away from her, he noticed that her hand was shaking. She truly was suffering!
‘Madame Pietre, you need more than rest here to restore you. Will you allow me to summon your uncle? He should escort you home.’
She shook her head vehemently and murmured something incoherent.
Whatever the trouble that beset her, she would not share it with Verdicchio. Leo found he was glad. Verdicchio was a sly weasel, a manipulator of souls. If he was the Venetian Nightingale’s lover, it was probably because he had some hold over her. Gazing down at the lustrous ebony hair coiled against her delicate neck, Leo failed, yet again, to bring himself to think ill of her.
He felt an overpowering urge to protect her, in spite of what she was.
‘If you will not ask your uncle to escort you home, madame, perhaps you will allow me to do so?’ The words were out before the thought was fully formed.
Her head jerked up. She stared at him wide-eyed. Her lips opened a fraction, as if in astonishment.
Committed by his own words, and feeling suddenly glad of it, Leo gazed steadily into her face. He was determined to help her and, for some reason, it was vital that she should understand that.
‘Lord Leo,’ she said very softly, ‘you—’ She shook her head a little. ‘I do not know what to say.’
He took that as agreement. Giving her no time to say another word, he swiftly arranged for her carriage to be brought round. Unlike the Aikenhead brothers, the Venetian Nightingale could afford to keep her own carriage in Vienna, he discovered.
Seeing that her colour was beginning