The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (14 page)

Only to rebuild from the ground up.

As Alejandro looked about him, the similarity was striking. Le comte de Saint-Cyr’s opera box was completely lined in blood-red velvet from floor to ceiling. Flowers, satin pillows, and velvet cushions were in periwinkle blue, deep purples, silver, and gold—most in a disturbing striped pattern. The addition of Louis XVI antique furniture emphasized the fact that, if Maximilien Robespierre and Marie Antoinette’s ghosts were still in residence, they were letting their presence be known at the Palais Garnier.

Or, at least, in the count of Saint-Cyr’s box.

Vive la France! Vive la République! Vive la Résistance!

Situated in the red velvet-lined opera box, Alejandro searched the other elite boxes in vain for the woman in black. She was not one to blend into the background.

It was as if she had disappeared into thin air
.

“Who are you looking for, Alejandro? Play a round of cards with us,” Valentinois insisted, his dark, melancholy looks adding an obsessive tone to his intensity.

“Excuse me? No one. Oh, yes, why not.”

Seated with him in the private box, his friends of many years chatted amiably, insisting on drawing him into the conversation. Out of duty, habit, or a failed attempt at the social graces, he knew not which, he acquiesced.

“Although this is her debut, the soprano is said to be phenomenal,” offered le comte de Saint-Cyr. “And beautiful,” he added with the sly smile of one who has advance information.

“She is young if it is her debut,” Alejandro remarked with a shrug as he reached for a card. Listening to their ensuing frivolous banter, he surmised that he would have gifted himself a towering kindness in remaining silent. “All young sopranos are beautiful.”

“I have a friend who observed her in rehearsal, and he was smitten beyond reason.”

“I always suspected that your grandfather was not only one of Napoleon’s nine guards but a spy as well, Comte.” Alejandro chuckled despite his mood. “You do your ancestor credit.”

Saint-Cyr’s deep-blue eyes brightened, his blond curls glistening around his face. He waved his lavender-gloved hand in false modesty. With the addition of the gold and rubies to Saint-Cyr’s attire, one had to admit that the effect was dazzling.

“In point of fact, Saint-Cyr’s grandfather would roll over in his grave were he to see him,” murmured Valentinois. There was a rumbling of laughter while Saint-Cyr feigned indignation.

“And what can you tell us about the opera besides the beautiful soprano?” asked Esteban, who never felt intimidated by Alejandro’s friends.

“The setting for Bizet’s opera is Madrid,” stated Gaston Leroux, a friend of Saint-Cyr’s.

“I trust it shall please you, Alejandro,” stated le duc de Valentinois, his serious tone in contrast to Saint-Cyr’s playfulness.

“Is the opera sung in Spanish?” inquired Alejandro disinterestedly.

“No, of course not,” replied Valentinois. “In French, to be sure.” Alejandro thought, not for the first time, that Valentinois might have presented a quite Byronesque appearance had he worn his hair a little longer rather than short and parted in the middle, as was the fashion of the day. The Duke was so dark and mysterious in his appearance that women were invariably drawn to him.

It was no matter—Valentinois had no desire to leave the bachelor state and seemed to enjoy nothing more than hunting, sporting, and being in the company of his friends. The impression of depth that his appearance gave was considerably misleading. Most notably disappointed were mamas in search of matrimonial partners for their daughters.

“An unfortunate choice for an opera set in Madrid. As it so happens, I am not pleased.” He felt annoyed but smiled amiably. He had agreed to attend, but feigning enthusiasm he found strangely difficult this evening.

“You are a master of English, French, and Italian, as well as Spanish,” stated Esteban. “You are in a position to overlook it, my friend. I trust it will pose no difficulty.”

“I could overlook it if the opera set in Spain were sang in Italian. That is, at least, the language of the Pope. But
French
?” He laughed at the absurdity of it. But he was far from amused. “The very fact that I am a man of education, as you point out, makes it difficult to overlook the art this city produces.
Ave Maria
. Have you seen that fellow Picasso’s work, Valentinois? That which Parisians produce with the considerable energy they exert is, to say the least, indefinable.”

“Picasso is Spanish,” stated Esteban without aplomb.

“True. He exhibited much promise before he came to Paris.” Alejandro threw a ten of spades on the table.

“He must have been a very boring sort of chap,” remarked Saint-Cyr with a toss of his blond curls.

“Are there no standards in Paris? Do we forget all that we have learned from centuries of masters, revert to our schoolroom days, and call it ‘art’? There is no discipline to it. It does nothing to elevate, to uplift, to improve. It merely tears down.” Alejandro shook his head. “No, if the soprano is anything in that line, I have no need of her performance.”

“You speak of Picasso’s work
Life
, painted after his recent visit to Barcelona, Your Highness?” asked Gaston Leroux with genuine curiosity.

“It looks more like death,” replied Alejandro with indifference, tightening his eyebrows while discarding his low card. “Picasso may call it what he will. What is its contribution to society?”

“The painting is meant to incite one’s emotion,” noted Esteban. “It begs us to take notice of the suffering of humanity.”

If disgust is an emotion, it has fulfilled its purpose
. “We have all noticed it, but let us do something about it rather than painting dismal pictures,” Alejandro replied wearily without taking his eyes from his cards. Everything was a reminder of so much that needed to be done.
And I have so little real power.

“You are not yourself this evening, Your Highness,” le comte de Saint-Cyr remarked gaily as he dealt the cards for another round. When he finished dealing the cards, he glanced at himself in the mirror behind Leroux’s head and seemed to be pleased with what he saw. “You are quite afflicting us all with gloom.”

“I am very much myself. That is why you find fault with me,” Alejandro replied, looking up absently. He turned to scan the other boxes for a sign of the woman before returning to his cards.
Diantre!
Why could he not see her? She could have lit the night skies. “And I beg you will call me by my name, my friend.”

“I set an example for le duc de Valentinois.” Saint-Cyr chuckled. “I wish him to know his place. His title was recognized by Napoleon and is therefore in question.”

“Ah, but my champagne is good enough for you, I observe, despite my questionable bloodlines,” replied Valentinois, laughing and pouring Saint-Cyr another glass of champagne.

“As we have already established, Saint-Cyr’s nobility initiated with Napoleon, his ancestor being one of Napoleon’s nine guards,” Esteban reminded the party.

“Just so. Whereas my ancestry was noble long before my family was recognized by Napoleon.” Valentinois chuckled, raising his glass in unconcealed enjoyment. “It is a joke on himself Saint-Cyr enjoys.”

“But none of us can trace our royal lineage as far back as the Comte de
Champagne.
”
Leroux winked, holding up the bottle of champagne.

“Even Alejandro, who can only trace the House of Bonifácio back to the thirteenth century,” remarked Saint-Cyr. “A toast then…to champagne, to France, and to España.”

“To honor and character,” Alejandro countered resolutely, raising his glass to Esteban. He grew increasingly bored by the conversation. There was no topic of less interest to him than one’s illustrious bloodlines, even in jest.

Or perhaps he was already much more unsettled by the woman in black than he wished to admit.

Sparkling conversation was surprisingly difficult for him this evening. Racking his brain, he offered, “We had expected to be joined by the British diplomats to France this evening, but at the last moment the wife fell ill. I received the note only upon entering the opera house.” He didn’t really give a damn at that moment, though he had earlier been quite put out by the change of plans.

“A shame. I so enjoy affairs of state,” Saint-Cyr quipped. “What is his name?”

“Ravensdale,” Esteban interjected, even as he kept his eyes forward, scanning the opera house. “A great war hero. I understand that he is a most interesting and formidable fellow.”

“Scintillating, no doubt,” Saint-Cyr murmured, picking up his cards.

“Didn’t Ravensdale serve many years in Tibet before that fiasco of an invasion by the British?” Valentinois asked pensively.

“I am relieved you said it, Duc, and not I. I do not wish to be admonished again for stating the truth. Ravensdale had nothing to do with that invasion and, in fact, exerted every effort to prevent it, I understand.” Alejandro’s lips formed a half smile as he attempted to express interest through his melancholy.

“Younghusband led the British troops,” stated Esteban quietly.

“Do not bore us with your politics, Alejandro,” pleaded le comte de Saint-Cyr. “It can be no concern of ours.”

“To the contrary,” stated Leroux. “Ravensdale was instrumental in the signing of the
Entente Cordiale
, bringing closure to centuries of hostility between France and England.”

“For that Saint-Cyr can never forgive him,” exclaimed, discarding a five of diamonds and enjoying another sip of champagne.

“How could Saint-Cyr object to the signing of a peace treaty?” Leroux asked.

“I assure you that the hostilities have not ended as far as Saint-Cyr is concerned,” noted Valentinois, smiling at his friend. “The blood of the warrior flows in his veins.”

They all burst into laughter even as Saint-Cyr waved his lavender hand to a friend in the opposite box, tossing his blond curls defiantly in le duc de Valentinois’s direction.

“Saint-Cyr would put Marie Antoinette to the blush,” agreed Alejandro, feeling some amusement for the first time that evening.

“Not so with you, Alejandro.” Saint-Cyr smiled. “Do you recall the time we were set upon by bandits, and you had overcome the lot of them before we had managed our surprise?”

Valentinois began to laugh uncontrollably at the memory. “Saint-Cyr almost choked on his own collar without any help from the enemy.”

“You are no stranger to the sword either, Valentinois, and a damn fine boxer as well,” Alejandro remarked.

“None of which served me in the incident in question. My reflexes are no match for yours, Alejandro.”

“I owe what little skill I have to Esteban,” he stated, turning to glance into the audience. The gloom was descending upon him again at not being able to find the woman in black. She was far too exquisite to have disappeared into thin air, and it appeared that she had.

The curtain began to rise and, with it, the sounds of anticipation. Alejandro turned his back to the stage and applied himself to his hand, reluctantly taking another sip of champagne.

The musical overture ensued, and another round of cards was played. It seemed the night was destined to go on forever—and the opera had not yet begun!

And then came the moment when his world changed forever.

Suddenly he was surrounded by the most heavenly ambrosia he had ever experienced. He had never heard anything so beautiful, so entrancing in his life.

As long as he kept his eyes closed, his party would remain silent. No one would speak as long as he was clearly in a reverie, despite their facade of equality. In contrast to their usual friendly banter, he could have heard a pin drop. Her voice intermingled with his soul and captivated him there.