The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) (24 page)

“I will see her one more time, Esteban.” A sudden resolve washed over him with a strength that surprised him. “If only to prove to myself that there is nothing further there for me.”

“But you forget that she refused you.”

“As you said, Esteban, a temporary state of affairs, I assure you.”

“Ah, and what do you plan to do, my friend?” He blew rings of smoke into the air.

“Plan? Yes, this will require more than gentle diplomacy.” Alejandro shrugged, tapping his finger on his coffee cup. “I am forced to make her an offer she cannot refuse in light of the fact that expensive gifts, obsequious groveling, and even appealing to her better nature has not worked.”

“She appears to require the full extent of your diplomatic training.”

“I have exhausted that route. It is time to call upon my military training.”

“You may win in one respect, Alejandro, but take care you do not lose in another. You may have finally encountered a worthy adversary.”

He picked up the newspaper and handed it to Esteban. “She may find that it is to her advantage to be
accommodating
.”

Chapter Sixteen

Pray, have pity

Have compassion

on a man in his condition!

He’s awaiting your permission,

You just send a little note

and he will hasten to your side,

Yes, he will hasten here to your side,

What’s your answer?

—
Gioachino Rossini
,
The Barber of Seville

The air was less than celebratory at the Palais Garnier’s rehearsal following opening night. Uncharacteristically, Nicolette had difficulty in giving her best to the practice, but she forced herself to do so anyway. She knew that her grandmother was right: she was not going down without a fight.

She had heard the roar of the audience, and she knew that she had something to offer. She wanted to perform before thousands, and she wanted to know the extent of who she could be.

“Monsieur Beaumaris must see you at once, Mademoiselle Nicolette.” As she hastened to her dressing room following the rehearsal of the first act, Monsieur Beaumaris’s secretary pursued her behind the stage, waving frantically. “Proceed to his office immediately.”

It was not a request.

Apprehension filled her as she observed the secretary’s brusque manner. Trying desperately to breathe deeply, terror struck her heart as she wondered if her singing career was over, as she had a thousand times since last evening.

If that was the case, she would go to Vienna or London, she concluded, her thoughts racing. She could live with her grandmamma in London.

She would start over. It would be difficult, but what choice did she have? Sadness engulfed her as she thought of singing in the chorus for two more years before earning another chance at a leading role, possibly with the same outcome. Her heart shuddered in her chest. It was getting more and more difficult to maintain her resolve.

Melancholy overtook her. Moving past the Grand Staircase, which split in the middle to veer off into interweaving corridors, alcoves, balconies, hidden rooms, and Greek columns, all lit by chandeliers and candelabras, she felt as if a ghost were watching her. She thought of the underground lake and its black fish and shuddered.

She had never before felt ill at ease in this intimidating structure, however magical and mysteriously haunted it might appear to others. The Palais Garnier was the venue for masked balls, ballerinas in tutus and full costume conversing with the guests, and chance meetings with royalty. The world’s most beautiful music was performed here. She had always found it to be glorious.

And now it was the means by which her life would be taken away from her.

“Mademoiselle Nicolette.” As she inched into his office, the director of L’Opéra national de Paris presented her with a forced smile. Monsieur Georges Beaumaris was in his early fifties, handsome and distinguished with styled blond-gray hair, a moustache, and golden-brown eyes. He was trim, on the short side of average height, and he wore crisp, well-fitting suits. He was debonair, smiled often, and spoke little. When he did speak, there was content to it.

Monsieur Beaumaris had the rare gift of being able to work with the most temperamental of artists. He was not temperamental himself, and he never displayed emotion. He was kindhearted, but he was a successful businessman who understood that his business was volatile.

“Monsieur.” She curtseyed.

“
Bon
. Please sit down.”

Again, it was not a request.

“The good news is that your performance last night was magnificent.”

“Merci, Monsieur Beaumaris,” she replied cordially, her hands shaking, feeling no comfort in his words. She could see from his expression that the worst was yet to come.

“The bad news is that the critics hated it.”

“But the
audience
…”

“It is not sufficient. The audience has not placed stories in the paper. And an audience is very fickle—she will change her mind if popular opinion decrees it …” He shook his head. “Very fickle.”

Nicolette braced herself for the worst.
Oh, please, please don’t say that you’re going to replace me.

“However, all is not lost.” He tapped his hands on his desk, clean except for two neat piles. A bookcase behind him was filled with music scores arranged alphabetically. Photographs of the world’s most talented singers lined the walls. It was a simple office. A working office.

“Yes?” She gulped. Why did he sit there, staring at her as if she weren’t there? Of all things,
that
she was not accustomed to.

“You have an admirer, Mademoiselle Nicolette.”

“
An
admirer? As in one?”

“A very important patron.” For the first time there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes as he spoke. “The crown prince of Spain, to be precise.”

Nicolette swallowed hard. She
used
to have an admirer. “When did you see the prince?” she managed to mumble. For a woman with such a grand voice, it felt very small at the moment.

“A few minutes ago,” replied Monsieur Beaumaris. He pointed to her chair as if to indicate that the prince had only just sat there.

“A few minutes?” she managed to repeat, her heart racing. “And the prince was…cordial?” she asked hesitantly. She wanted to ask if it appeared that His Royal Highness was carrying a deadly weapon or intended to strangle her but thought the better of it.

Georges Beaumaris laughed somewhat forcibly, nonetheless suffusing the heavy air with a touch of lightness. “If the desire to have lunch with you is a sign of cordiality, then
oui
.”

“Lunch?” she asked incredulously.

“The prince is quite devoted to you, Mademoiselle Nicolette, I congratulate you.”

“Indeed?” she asked, her eyes opening wide.
Devoted to his own pleasure
. Nicolette’s mind was spinning as she considered her director’s words.

“He wishes a private performance.” Georges Beaumaris’s smile faded slightly.

“Yes, he told me as much himself.” She kept her eyes glued to Monsieur Beaumaris, not believing that he could stoop so low, her friend of so many years.

“Do not look at me thus, Lady Nicolette.” Monsieur Beaumaris leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache. His lack of concern with her reaction further alarmed her. The small room seemed to be shrinking. “We do this sort of thing all the time. This is a standard request among wealthy patrons of far less influence than the crown prince of Spain! If you wish to be a star, I strongly advise you to meet his small request and to encourage his patronage.”

“You wish me to
encourage
him?” She sat up straight in her chair, now inflamed. “
Monsieur
?”

“His Royal Highness assured me that his interest is of a purely professional nature.” Her shock must have been written across her face, because Monsieur Beaumaris shook his head adamantly.

“What else would he say?” she murmured, sinking back into her chair.

“No one is asking you to compromise your virtue, Mademoiselle Nicolette,” he replied quietly but decidedly. “And I would strongly advise you against it.”

“Do you deny that there are”—she cleared her throat—“liaisons between certain of the cast and the wealthy patrons?”

“I do not condone that, nor do I forbid it.” He shook his head. “It is out of my hands. That type of thing will never happen to someone who does not wish it. Take along whoever you like as a chaperone to be seated in an adjoining room. I will provide you with a bodyguard myself,
s’il vous plaît
.”

She stared at him, shocked. She thought she knew this man.

“
Bien
.” He crossed his arms over his chest, indicating this his stance was nonnegotiable. “The more you can be seen with the prince, the better for your vocation.”

“What are you saying,
precisely,
Monsieur Beaumaris?”

“
Vous ne comprenez pas
, Mademoiselle Nicolette.”
You do not understand.
“Unless we can rectify the damage that has been done by the critics, I am sorry to say that your singing career will be
fini
before it begins.”

“I need to be certain that I understand you, Monsieur Beaumaris.” Nicolette’s heart fluttered in her chest violently, but she brought all of her acting ability to the forefront. All her life Nicolette had known herself to be powerful, a person in control of her own destiny, and suddenly she was at the mercy of a man she had only just met, a man whom she found utterly revolting.

“That is best.”

“Are you telling me that, if I do not have lunch with this stranger, a man I know nothing about, and do not give him a private performance, that I will no longer be a soloist with the opera?”

“
Oui
, that is very likely, Mademoiselle.” He tipped his chin.

She could not believe what she was hearing.

“The roles will always go to the most popular singers. I cannot cast you if no one wishes to see you. And no one will wish to see you if you have only negative publicity.”

She knew this to be absolutely true—the very thoughts she had been entertaining—but could not find it in herself to agree. The implications were almost immoral and certainly demeaning.

“Mademoiselle Nicolette, you need this acquaintance.” He smiled, his expression suddenly tender. “His Royal Highness can do you a great deal of good. He may be a stranger to you, as you put it, but the rest of the world knows of him, and that is the relevant point.”

“Why is it necessary when I have already done the work, Monsieur? I have never groveled before anyone—even when I had so much to learn—and now that my talent is fully developed, I must do so.” Her stomach twisted violently, and she wondered if she might become ill. She added softly, “And why do I feel that I am compromising myself?”

“This is not about groveling, Mademoiselle Nicolette. This is about the realization of your dreams, nothing more.” He rose from his chair and began pacing, his expression severe. “You might be the worst singer on earth, but if you are seen about town with the prince of Spain, people will come to the opera just to see what all the fuss is about.”