Chapter Two

Lady Adeline Frothingham's Musicale (featuring world-famous Soprano La Contessa Adorabella DiRossi, in her First London Performance)

"Welcome, Lady Boothe, Miss Boothe, Miss Finchley."

The butler accepted their invitations and gestured toward the large foyer of Frothingham House, where maids and footmen were busy relieving guests of their outerwear. Since it had rained steadily all day, the entire space, massive though it was, reeked slightly of wet dog.

Florinda shook out her skirts, hoping her brief trip from carriage to doorway hadn't splashed the robin's egg blue silk too badly.

Beside her, Susan was doing much the same thing. "My feet got wet," she frowned.

"They'll dry off. And we'll be sitting most of the evening, so you don't have to worry about squishing while dancing."

"Very true." Susan nodded her agreement. "I've heard that La Contessa is quite a fine singer," she observed, tucking an errant flower back into the ornate trim around her neckline.

"Yes," answered Florinda, her voice dry. "With an equally fine figure, I understand."

"Well, that would go without saying, wouldn't it?" Susan shot her a quick glance. "I mean, she has to have excellent lung capacity…"

Florinda rolled her eyes.

"Come along, girls. We must take our seats."

Lady Boothe shepherded her little flock of two through the hubbub that filled foyers on such occasions, and into the enormous ballroom that always struck Florinda as being quite out of place in a London house. It would have been more at home in a magnificent palace, somewhere out in the wilds of Somerset, where there was room to spare.

On this night, there were many chairs lined up neatly before a dais, upon which rested the obligatory musical instruments. One lonely fellow had already taken his place and was quietly tuning his violin, providing an excellent background accompaniment to the murmur and rumble of voices, increasing a little as the guests found seats, settled themselves, turned and waved to others and carried on conversations in politely dulcet tones.

The squeal of a chair on the polished floor distracted Florinda, and she shot a look in that direction, only to find herself staring right into the face of a certain gentleman she'd worked quite hard to forget. Obviously, her nights of contemplation had failed, since her heart thudded rather suddenly at his appearance.

He paused, his lips twitched into a slight smile, and he nodded, a very small movement, but clearly intended for her. Then he turned aside and resumed his job of seating the lady he was with.

Probably his mama, she thought, since the white hair, feathers, and overly large jewellery gave it away. Why older women found themselves in dire need of the most enormous gems that could be worn without tipping the wearer over, Florinda had no idea.

Looking down at her hands, she closed her eyes for a brief moment, and attempted to retrieve her countenance, which had been threatened, for some unknown reason, at the sight of Mr Trease.

Thank goodness it was a concert, with limited mingling. There would be a performance, then a break for some refreshments, at which point guests could stretch their legs and fill their stomachs at the same time. After that, though, it would be back to their seats and the rest of the performance.

"Florinda," said Susan quietly, nudging her friend.

"What?"

"Do you see him?"

About to say yes, how did you know, Florinda realised that Susan was talking about someone quite different. Her friend's gaze was fixed upon the dais, and the man with the violin.

He continued to fiddle with strings and pegs, plucking, then lifting the instrument to his shoulder, running his bow over the strings, and repeating the process, ignoring his fellows who had joined him on the dais.

"Of course I see him," she replied. "Looks like he isn't happy with his violin this evening." She watched him. "By the time he's ready, he'll have played the first aria in bits and pieces, all by himself."

"But don't you think he is…" Susan gulped audibly, "delicious?"

Florinda looked more closely. "Well, I suppose you might say so if you find long, fair, silky hair, and long fingers to match, appealing."

At that moment, the musician stood, adjusted his music stand, then sat down again.

Florinda cleared her throat. "He's quite acceptably built, too."

Since the only response from Susan was a gusty sigh, she took that as a sign of agreement with her assessment.

The room was nearly full, and a rustle that began at the door heralded the arrival of the evening's celebrity. Florinda waited with interest to see the much-lauded soprano in the flesh.

And there was a lot of it.

La Contessa personified that delightful Italian word "abbondanza", in a variety of different ways.

Her ensemble was magnificent, brilliant peacock blue silk swathed her very generous curves, and feathers from the bird itself adorned the many black shining curls cascading from a knot on the top of her head.

Moving down in one's assessment, the next notable feature was the prominently displayed cleavage, a valley of unknown proportions which descended between pale mountains, tucked—mostly—within a covering of gold lace and silk.

"Good lord," muttered Florinda, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her modest breasts.

"Heavens above," breathed Susan. "That is a lot of woman."

"With a very talented modiste," added Florinda, observing the more than ample rear view of the Contessa as she swayed her way toward the dais.

"She can't possibly sit down. That gown will split like a roast potato."

Susan's comment made Florinda snort a laugh, which in turn earned her a frown from her mother.

"I'm sorry, Mama, but you must admit…"

Lady Boothe frowned at her daughter. "Polite gels do not make personal remarks, Florinda. Must I remind you of that?"

"No Mama," she replied respectfully.

"I will confess to some curiosity, however, as to the name of her modiste."

Florinda grinned. "I'll wage the poor woman is lying on her bed, being fanned by her seamstresses and drinking brandy."

Lady Boothe politely hid her snicker with her fan. "Hush now. I think the performance is about to start."

*~~*~~*

She was here.

Ashe had tried very hard indeed to put her out of his mind over the intervening days, refusing to dwell on her spirited manner, her glowing brown eyes, shapely assets, her well—other things that it wouldn't be polite to name.

But by God she had skin he would very much like to touch, just to verify that it was as silken as it looked just above her bodice…or beneath, come to think of it…those soft curves… Damn.

Now here he was, several rows away from her, and already his evening breeches were uncomfortable. He slipped the programme over his lap.

"Everything all right, dear?" His mother leaned toward him. "After Frothingham says a few words, I'm sure the concert will begin."

"Frothingham has never said a few words in his life, Mama. We'll be here 'til Christmas if he gets going."

"Shhh." She patted his hand comfortably. "If he takes too long, I wouldn't be surprised if Contessa DiRossi got hungry and took a bite out of his backside."

Caught off-guard, Ashe managed to turn his bark of laughter into a cough without attracting attention.

He leaned to her side. "I love you very much, Mama," he whispered.

"Good boy," she grinned. "Now hush."

Lady Hazel Trease was one of a kind, mused her son, and when he had told her that, she'd laughed. She had raised her children, her forest of Trease as Ashe's father called them, with a firm hand and a loving heart.

Lord Hawthorn Trease was an excellent match for her, sparring verbally, laughing prodigiously, and unafraid to show affection to his brood. In fact, he was often heard to declare that he was "damn proud of all of ‘em."

Which sentiment was, of course, returned fully by his five offspring, who had all come to terms with the naming tradition within the Trease family. It went back, so t'was said, to the time when a certain member of the then-royal family was rescued from an embarrassing predicament and bestowed the title and lands on his saviour.

Ashe had his own ideas about what had occurred in that barn, but that was several centuries ago, and since then the Trease family had prospered through common sense, friendship, and the ability to wield a sword when necessary.

Land was everything, Ashe knew, and the marquessate would continue through him when the unimaginable happened and he lost his Papa.

Which doubtless explained his Mama's desire for him to accompany them to London this season, and do things like sit in uncomfortable chairs, waiting for their host to finish his fulsome and meandering introduction, which was now happening right in front of him.

However, a short burst of music from the lead violinist made Lord Frothingham jump, recall himself, and introduce the evening's star guest.

Finally, the concert began, and Ashe sighed with relief.

Until La Contessa hit the first high note, and there was an odd tinkling sound that had him sitting straighter in his chair.

He glanced at his mother, who had not apparently noticed it. He shrugged to himself. Perhaps he was coming down with something.

But no, that same note, and more, even higher, were starting to vibrate around him.

This time it was no mistake. Ashe had no idea what note it was, since his musical training was next to none. His piano teacher had resigned after three lessons, declaring he was tone deaf and the only instrument he should be allowed near was a drum, and that only if it were buried deep in the woods behind Forest Hall.

Frowning, he looked at the other guests, and a few of them seemed to be shifting in their seats, also glancing around.

Miss Florinda Boothe was one of them, and by chance their gazes met, both puzzled by the odd occurrence.

She lifted an eyebrow. What's going on?

Instinctively, he raised his shoulders in answer. I don't know.

His concern grew apace as the musical notes seem to vary between the melodious, the high, and the guaranteed-to-make-a-dog-howl levels.

Where the aria was going, he had no idea, but he was now extremely uncomfortable, and he finally looked up to see—to his horror—all the chandeliers in the Frothingham ballroom shimmering, trembling under the musical assault.

Having seen what a high-pitched sound could do to crystal (although he'd never revealed to anyone where he had been at the time, and how it happened, nor would he), Ashe feared the worst.

"Mama," he said, clutching her arm. "Your train."

"Shhh," she whispered, unaware of what was happening.

"Put it over your head. Now."

"What?"

He reached behind her, grabbed the flowing fabric and tossed it over her, crushing feathers, and making her sputter. Then he leaned close and got beneath it himself.

Only just in time.

Contessa DiRossi hit the final note of the aria and, with what sounded like an agonised scream, the glass candleholders in every chandelier surrendered to the audible torture and gave up their lives, shattering into droplets of diamond bright rain.

All over the guests sitting beneath them in the Frothingham ballroom.