turned back. A tiny frown marred her white brow.
‘Will you not tell me your name? I would know to whom I am indebted.’
Leo smiled across at her. She was demonstrating a fine lady’s impeccable manners, now that the door was partly open. ‘Lord Leo Aikenhead, at your service, madame,’ he said, bowing as he would to a duchess. It seemed fitting.
‘You are an Englishman?’ She sounded more than a little surprised.
‘Yes, madame.’
‘An Englishman who speaks perfect French,’ she said, changing in an instant to near flawless English. ‘You will forgive me, Lord Leo, if I say that I am surprised to encounter such a man.’
‘And you will forgive me, I hope, Madame Pietre, if I express surprise that an Italian lady should speak my native language so well. After all, we have been at war with most of Europe for decades.’
‘That has not prevented some of your compatriots from making their way to Venice, sir. One learns to speak many languages there.’
Madame Pietre, from Venice. A pearl of a woman from the pearl of the Adriatic. The words came into his mind unbidden, but he knew instantly that he would always remember her in that way. She should wear a collar of priceless pearls around that swanlike throat, glowing against her skin.
Leo’s hand gripped the latch fiercely. His body was urging him to go to her, to lift her gloved hands to his lips, to discover, from the distance of a breath, whether her complexion was as delicate as it appeared, and her lips as luscious. His body was tempting him to treat this gentle lady as if she were a mere strumpet. He forced himself, instead, to bow in farewell. He was not a blackguard like Beck. He would not allow her extraordinary beauty to undermine his sense of honour.
‘If you will permit me, madame, I shall take my leave of you now. Your maid will attend on you in a moment.’ He forced himself to step out into the corridor and fasten the door behind him, leaving the lovely Italian alone with his wine and his fire. For a second, he leant back against the door and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Was that her subtle scent in his nostrils? It was so faint that he could not be sure if his senses were playing tricks on him. Yet he could almost have sworn that, for a fraction of a second, he had smelled the scent of a wildflower meadow in spring.
He berated himself for a numbskull. Even if his senses were right, it was of no import. She was Madame Pietre. Probably a married lady. And a lady Leo was unlikely ever to encounter again. No doubt she was bound for her home in Italy, while he was fixed in Vienna, probably for months. Just as well, in the circumstances, he decided. He could not afford to be diverted into wooing a virtuous lady from her husband’s bed. He had done it often enough, of course, when the lady was ready to be wooed, but it took both time and money, neither of which he had at present. He must take a mistress here in Vienna—his overeager reaction to the beautiful Venetian had amply demonstrated his needs in that direction—but he would content himself with one of the many courtesans in the city. In that regard, Madame Pietre was far above his touch.
Sophie held her breath until the door had closed firmly behind him. Then she raised her glass of wine with a slightly shaky hand and took a long swallow to ease her parched throat and racing pulse.
What on earth was the matter with her? Why was she reacting so to a man who was simply offering help to a lady in distress? Beck she could easily deal with. She had been a little frightened, to be sure, but only because she imagined she was going to have to cry out for assistance. That would have created a distasteful scene in a public inn and sullied her reputation even further. Her life was already difficult enough, for her would-be lovers assumed, as did all the polite world, that to be a professional singer was to be a whore. High class, perhaps, but still a whore.
Sophie had accepted jewels from the Baron von Beck, at Verdicchio’s insistence. As a result, the Baron believed he had rights over her person, even though she had twice rejected his advances. She had thought to be rid of him by leaving Italy. Was he following her to Vienna? She did not know, but their meeting had proved what she already suspected: the Baron was both dangerous and vindictive. He was now prepared to take her by force if he could. And if he could not, he was like to seek other ways of having revenge upon her.
Sophie shuddered and pulled her chair a little closer to the comforting warmth of the fire. If Beck were to be in Vienna while Sophie was performing there, it would be dangerous to go out alone or to have private meetings with gentlemen, even gentlemen like Lord Leo Aikenhead, whose motives had been of the very highest. His kindness had warmed her more than the fire.
The contrast between the two men was stark. Beck, as ever, had been immaculately and expensively dressed, but nothing he wore could give him the effortless presence of Lord Leo Aikenhead. It was not merely that Lord Leo was taller and of a more athletic build. Beck’s meanness of spirit was written in his features. Lord Leo, by contrast, had the open, easy air of a man who was respected by everyone. He would not need to assert his rank in order to be obeyed.
What was his rank? Sophie was not absolutely sure, but she fancied he was possibly a younger son. She had encountered quite a few such men over the years, all of them eager to know her better, and none of them plump in the pocket. There was no reason to suppose that Lord Leo was any different. Still, she could always make discreet enquiries of the embassy staff, and if—
Good grief! She was losing her wits!
She shook her head in an attempt to clear her unruly thoughts. Truly, she could not afford to allow Lord Leo’s attractive person to cloud her judgement. He was only a man. And she had long ago learned to be wary of all men, even men who rescued ladies in distress. Besides, she might never lay eyes on him again. He might not be going to Vienna. Even if he were, why should he attend performances by the Venetian Nightingale? He had the air of a man who took his pleasures outdoors, with horse and dog and gun, not a man who frequented salons and musical soirées.
She would do well to forget him. It was much more important to concentrate on saving enough to pay for her escape from Verdicchio. A little siren voice whispered that, if she had accepted the suit of one of her many admirers, she would have had money aplenty, and a protector against Verdicchio, besides, but she knew she could not do such a thing. Just the thought of being touched by them made her feel soiled. She had refused, thus far, to sell her body. She would not sell it now, when her freedom was almost within her grasp.
One day, perhaps, she would bestow it. But as a gift, a gift of love. And thus far, she had met no man worthy of that gift.
No, not even Lord Leo Aikenhead.
Chapter Three
‘We do have to go, Leo. Everyone will be there. Even the Russian Emperor is expected to attend.’ Jack’s lips twitched into a hint of a cynical smile.
Leo grunted. ‘If so, this singer must be beautiful as well as talented. His Russian Majesty is reputed to be something of a connoisseur of women.’
Jack pursed his lips. ‘I wonder, though. They call her the Venetian Nightingale. Sounds more like a ravishing voice but plain brown feathers, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Possibly. Shan’t know till we see her. What’s her name?’
‘No idea. The invitation just called her the Venetian Nightingale.’
‘Hmm. We’d best be on our way if we’re to catch any of this nightingale’s trilling, since the venue is half a day’s march from here.’ He shook his head in mock disgust. ‘Damned inconvenient to be lodged this far from the centre.’
Jack shrugged off the implied rebuke and crossed to the window to look down into the square below. ‘No sign of the carriage. What the devil is keeping the man? I ordered it for fifteen minutes since.’
‘Probably not his fault, Jack. With tens of thousands of visitors in Vienna, it’s sometimes impossible to move in the streets. And with a carriage…’