Steal Me, Sweet Thief Page 3

  Abbey nodded toward the score, still on the stage. "Pick it up," he ordered her. "Give it to Signore Campanini. And apologize to him. While you're about it, apologize to Signore Vianesi, as well."

  Geneva stared. She suspected that Abbey's angry commands had more to do with her recent rebuff of his unwanted advances than with his desire to appease either the tenor or the conductor. He wanted to shame her in front of all of them, and to show her just how much power he had.

  She hated him.

  In the folds of her gown, she squeezed her hands into fists. Use your head, girl. Audrey's constant, wise admonition was like the ring of a hammer on an anvil. The problem was, the anvil, in this case, was her head. And it was hard.

  "Do it, Miss Lionwood." Abbey was impatient.

  "Very well." She thought she'd choke on the words.

  Pick it up, a naughty voice in her head encouraged. Pick it up and give it back to the pig. And tell him how sorry you are.

  She stooped to retrieve the mistreated score. Abbey gave her his fingers to help her stand again, but when she glanced up, she saw that both he and Campanini were taking advantage of her position to look down her neckline.

  But even if they hadn't taken such an advantage, she'd still have thrown the score at Campanini's head, anyway. And her aim was true. "Disgraziata!" the tenor roared again. "Disgraziata! Cretina! Die mio!"

  "Cretino!" she hurled back at the injured tenor, fighting tears of anger and frustration as she stormed offstage. She would have said more, but she had to reach her dressing room, quickly. She refused to allow these men to see that they had reduced her to tears.

  This business was so wicked, so cruel to anyone without the proper connections: European ones. And Geneva was as American as the town of Hoboken, where she'd been born. The opera world was amazed—and probably annoyed—that, with such inauspicious roots, she'd made it as far as she had. Abbey should have supported her. He would be sorry, someday. She swore it.

  Abbey was screaming something else at her, but she could not hear him. Her head ached, and water filled her eyes. Her hands to her ears, she made her way to her tiny dressing room. Once inside, she slammed the door so hard that the mirror above the vanity fell to the floor with a crash, shattering into dozens of jagged shards on the wood floor.

  Her dressing room was the size of a closet, while Campanini enjoyed the luxury of a veritable suite! Abbey would not dare to treat another soprano of, say, Nilson's stature, in this shabby fashion. She seized the first handy object, which happened to be a Limoges vase of cobalt blue trimmed in gold leaf, full of the red roses that had arrived from Blaine that very morning, and threw it, with all of her strength, against the wall that had lately supported the hapless mirror. The result of her tantrum was a spectacular explosion of blue china slivers, water and roses, which left its residue upon everything in the room, herself included. Fortunately for her, she was unhurt by the event. Her slight relief, however, was momentary. Spent, she collapsed upon the worn brocade chaise, heedless of broken china and roses, and at last sobbed uncontrollably.

  "Geneva!"

  Not Elaine, she pleaded with her inner god. Please, not Elaine. I couldn't bear him, just now…

  "Geneva!"

  The summons from the wings was louder and more distinct. She recognized the voice, to her chagrin: It was Elaine, Lord Atherton. She allowed herself a small groan. Let him look for me, she thought, hoping he would fail in his quest. She pushed aside an errant rose that lay near her cheek. God, the musty odor of the upholstery, mingled with the sickeningly sweet smell of strewn roses, was nearly intolerable!

  Elaine called to her a third time. He was getting nearer to her dressing room. Geneva sat up and scrubbed her face with her skirt. It would not do to allow him to see that she'd been crying. Where was her gremlin?

  She liked to pretend that there was a gremlin who appeared whenever she needed him, a gremlin whose task it was to take all of her unwanted emotions, usually anger and frustration, and keep them in a little box. She'd invented him in her childhood to help her deal with disappointments and other cruelties of life, and she discovered that he was as effective in her adulthood as he had been then. Perhaps even more effective, especially during her brief tenure as Garland Humble's wife. Her eyes dried by the gremlin's magic. Or was it the thought of Garland Humble?

  "Geneva!" Blaine burst into the room like more shattering glass. "What in bloody hell has happened in here?"

  Blaine was intolerably stupid at times.

  "Go away," she said woodenly, not even granting him a hostile glance. She was no longer hurt and angry, just weary. The gremlin exacted a price, always.

  "Gen—"

  "Don't even think of scolding me, Blaine!" she warned him from her prone position on the chaise. "I can't tolerate any more. That stupid, stupid Campanini—he's still using the score—can you imagine? He walked on my cadenza. Not once. Not twice. But every time. Every time! And Faust opens next Friday!"

  "Faust" Blaine began in a truculent, singsong tone that infuriated her afresh, "will not open until October twenty-second." Her fury forgotten, she sat bolt upright. "What!"

  Blaine might have been considered handsome at one time, with his blue-gray eyes and his softly dimpled chin. But time and good living had softened his features rather than hardening them, like a loaf of white bread left too long to rise. He was smiling his indulgent, condescending, Peer-of-the-Realm smile, which she detested.

  There were many things about Blaine Atherton that she detested, not the least of which being his atrocious teeth, ridiculously short hair the color of old hay, and the fact that he was nearly twenty years her senior. The last he could not help, of course, but the first two were easily remedied—that is, if one took the time and the trouble. Her experience with titled English gentlemen, however, was that they devoted neither money nor attention to their personal grooming with the exception of their haberdashery, which often bordered upon foppishness. Elaine, Lord Atherton, was no exception to this paradigm.

  "The building is not completed." Elaine seemed delighted to impart the news. "Abbey has told me in strictest confidence. Which reminds me: He has also fired you."

  "Elaine, this is no time for jokes."

  Chuckling, Elaine brushed away slivers of the broken vase with his gloves to sit beside her on the chaise. He smelled of verbena and rotten teeth.

  "I am in earnest, Geneva," he whispered, wearing an expression suggesting that he had just bestowed upon her the world's largest precious gem.

  Geneva swallowed more tears.

  "You—you promised me Marguerite." She choked out the words, trembling. "You promised me the Metropolitan, Elaine!"

  If this was one of his wretched jokes, she would kill him for it. If it was not, she would simply die. The ripest, sweetest fruit always seemed to hang just beyond her reach.

  "I promised you the Metropolitan, my darling girl," Elaine breathed, taking her two hot hands into his own cool ones. "But it pleases me to give you Covent Garden, instead."

  Covent Garden! Geneva forgot her disappointment. Set in London like a dazzling jewel in common clay, the famed opera house had launched many an illustrious career. Chosen by numerous composers to premier new works, the Garden's reputation rivaled La Scala's in certain circles as a showplace for the very finest music and musicians in all of Europe—nay, the world! And, having conquered the critical and exacting European audiences, she would, surely, find many new doors opened to her here at home…

  She paused in her calculating: Henry Abbey had opened the Metropolitan's as-yet untried doors to her that very spring. She had been delighted at the unexpected honor of being invited to perform the lead in Faust at the opening of the brand-new opera house on Broadway, even though she knew she had not been the director's first choice. The mercurial Abbey was known to have a predilection for the Swedish soprano Christine Nilson, but clearly had been unable to ignore Blaine Atherton's obscenely large bequest, which was tied to the selection of herself, G
eneva Lionwood, as premier diva.

  Geneva had nevertheless been gratified that she, an American-born singer with no European reputation, had even been considered. American audiences were historically unkind to their own, and were known and disdained throughout Europe for preferring the name to the talent. This prospect had alarmed her, but Blaine had reassured her, saying that audiences would come to hear Campanini, but would leave praising Lionwood.

  Campanini, the grim reality. Campanini, the tenor who, by all measures, was a true musician's nightmare, with only the blessing of a God-given natural voice, which his renowned father had not managed to ruin.

  Vianesi, another grim reality: a brilliant, impossible conductor who considered opera to be Italy's gift to the world, and himself to be the Almighty's bequest to opera. His musicianship—and his tantrums—rivaled her own.

  Perhaps the grimmest reality of all had been Henry Abbey himself. He had proven to be distressingly yet cunningly lecherous, suggesting to her on more than one occasion that he might easily be persuaded to extend greater favors to her, were she to extend certain favors to him. Her continued rebuff of his attentions had earned her the humiliation of this afternoon as well as this very miserable box of a dressing room in which she now stood staring at Elaine, who had just handed her the moon. But could Elaine do it?

  True, Lord Atherton did hold a seat on Covent Garden's Board of Governors. Besides, he was embarrassingly wealthy, and money, she knew, held powerful sway in the expensive business of opera. She pulled her hands from his and clutched the claret-colored silk of his coat sleeves.

  "Elaine, if you are joking, or lying to me, I will kill you. I swear it."

  His expression was mildly rebuking. "My dear Geneva," he chided her in a murmur, holding her chin between his thumb and forefinger, "have I lied to you yet? About anything important, I mean?"

  She grimaced and jerked her head away from his touch. "Your wife, for example?"

  He waved his hand. "Unimportant." He kissed her lightly upon the nose. "Entirely unimportant."

  Geneva disengaged herself from his attentions, not in the least aroused by them. She never quite knew why she was bothered that Elaine had a wife in England. She should really be grateful, after all. Certainly, she would never entertain the notion of marrying him herself.

  Besides, she was already married, although Elaine probably did not know that. Sometimes, Geneva even managed to forget about it herself It seemed as though that event was something that had happened to another Geneva Lionwood, very long ago. She had achieved much in her attempts to forget it during these last three years. Although for some reason, Garland had been much upon her mind in the past few days.

  Perhaps it was because of all the patronizing men in her life at present. "It's late, Elaine," she said at the end of a sigh. "I'm due at the Academy. Maple son will be livid."

  "Why, so you are, and so he will," her would-be lover replied softly, sliding his arms down around her, pulling her closer. "My Zerlina. My Violetta. My Lucia, my Susannah, my Marguerite…"

  Unwillingly, she felt a thrill course through her—at his words, not his gentle touch. She felt a familiar surge of power. She was all of those women, and more. Her musical talent and superb voice made her so. She smiled. Blaine, for all of his shortcomings, knew the way to appease her.

  "Not your Marguerite," she reminded him, with no small twinge of regret that she would not, after all, open New York's Metropolitan Opera House. "Not yet."

  "In November." He sounded so sure of it that her spine burned. "In London. I promise it."

  She pushed aside her disappointment, draping her arms about Elaine's silk-ascotted neck like a wreath. "When do we sail for England?" She could not contain her excitement.

  He sought her lips for a brief kiss, his plain, soft features crinkling into a grin that was almost attractive. "Mmm. Can we not first set aside this silly rule of yours, about not making love while you're involved in a production? I know you perform tonight, but, darling, I've waited for you forever, it seems—"

  "Mmm, the patience of a saint, you exhibit," she murmured, trying to accept his ardent kisses anywhere but on her mouth. "Oh, that's right; I forgot. You celebrate no saints in the Church of England."

  "Hmmhmm." His chuckle was muted by his continued attempts to kiss her. "My darling, no one amuses me as you do…"

  And laughing often kept Elaine's attention directed to matters less amorous, which was why Geneva always endeavored to keep him as diverted as possible. Time, however, was obviously taking its toll. Blaine's hands slid up her bodice, and his thumbs teased the neckline of her dress. How much longer could she fend him off and still keep him interested?

  "London, Elaine." She disentangled herself from his embrace. "When do we leave?"

  "Let's talk about it tonight, after your performance," he suggested, nuzzling her neck. "Don Giovanni is sold out again!"

  Geneva suspected that her success was as desirable to him as her body. She pushed him away and made a face at him.

  "They come to hear Calve," she grumbled, hoping he would rise to the bait.

  "Ah, but they leave in raptures over Lionwood's Zerlina!"

  He did not disappoint her. She smiled, grateful for his predictability.

  "I'll blow you a kiss," she assured him, fingering his lapel. "Will you be in your box?"

  "I might be late," he replied, taking her hand and pressing a kiss onto her fingers. "But I shan't miss your 'Batti, batti.' Depend upon it."

  She sniffed and pulled her hand away. "Not my favorite aria."

  Blaine laughed aloud. "Understandable. You are not exactly the type to invite your lover to beat upon you while you quietly yield."

  She slapped his hand lightly.

  "Don't be impertinent," she said coolly. "Drive me to the Academy to make up for your cheek."

  Blaine seemed to enjoy her playing the role of a queen granting favors, and it was certainly no trouble at all for her to indulge his whim.

  "This way, My Lady." He bowed low with a sweep of his arm. "Your carnage awaits. As does your adoring audience." He kissed her fingertips.

  Yes, she thought, with no small contentment, bestowing a fond glance at the Englishman. For all his shortcomings, and shortsightedness, Blaine Atherton knew, as no one else, the circuitous route to her heart. And as long as she could hold him in the palm of her hand without welcoming him into her boudoir and still maintain his patronage, especially as he was taking her to London, it was all to her good.

  Something told her that at least one of those things was an impossibility. Perhaps it was that fickle gremlin of hers.

  Chapter Four

  Geneva peeked through the hole in the blood-red curtain into the noisy, crowded audience of the Academy of Music. The house lights from the behemoth central chandelier were still up; patrons were making for their seats in the annoyingly leisurely manner of the privileged class: showing off jewels and furs, husbands and lovers, looking for an opportunity to scrape one up on their friends and to snub their enemies. Sometimes, not even the overture silenced them. It was said that Mozart had scribbled the overture to Don Giovanni in under three hours in the dark morning before its premier, with his wife prompting his muse by telling the brilliant young composer bawdy stories. If this legend were true, it was certainly a tribute to Mozart's boundless abilities, and a good joke on ignorant and unappreciative audiences.

  Elaine was not in his proscenium box borrowed from the Beekmans, who were on holiday in Europe, and were probably enjoying Elaine's own box at Covent Garden. Tardiness was not unusual for Blaine, but it never failed to annoy Geneva. It seemed to her that the more one paid to hear an opera, the less regard one had for the spectacle. Having great respect for the music for its own sake, she often found herself resenting the cavalier attitudes of the so-called patrons of the art.

  "Your wig is all wrong," a tart, nasal voice behind her scolded. "It will be off before the second scene. Here, let me."

  It was Audrey Sta
ncil, the wardrobe mistress, fussing with her hair. Audrey was a diminutive yet leonine woman who had been costuming productions for nearly thirty years. She was also the closest thing to a friend that Geneva had had since she was a child.

  "Ouch!" Geneva, whose scalp was inordinately sensitive, pulled away from Audrey's deft ministrations as the latter expertly applied hairpins. "You should have waited for me," Audrey remonstrated. "Turn around."

  Geneva did so. Audrey, in her plain gray dress with a crisp white pinafore, was like a general reviewing her troops. She surveyed the ersatz Zerlina from hemline to hair ribbon, tugging a pleat here, tucking a blouson there. The wardrobe mistress shook her head, making a clucking sound.

  "You will display your ankles, won't you, child?"

  Geneva winked at her and glanced toward the closed curtain.

  "I must give them something to remember me by, Audrey."

  "As if they will forget your voice!" Audrey wagged a finger at her. Audrey, Geneva thought, would have made a wonderful mother to her. No doubt a much better one than her own.

  "Well, at least they're pretty ankles." Audrey was brisk. "Do you know, that Flemish Cow was jealous of your costume, and wanted me to shorten hers, as well?"

  "Calve?" Geneva was amazed. "Emma Calve? Jealous of me?"

  Calve, a beloved Belgian soprano, was singing Donna Anna in the production, and was but a few years Geneva's senior. Her broad, farm-girl features and physique had earned her the catty nickname among jealous rivals, including Geneva, of "the Flemish Cow."

  Audrey nodded. "And her with tree stumps for legs! Some women have no common sense. None at all."

  "Not like us, eh, Audrey?" Geneva teased. Audrey did not chuckle.

  "Humph!" The wardrobe mistress fussed once again with the placement of each golden curl of Geneva's blonde wig. "You're one to talk. I hear Abbey fired you today."

  Bad news traveled like an epidemic.

  "Who told you?" Geneva knew it was useless to ask, because Audrey never told. Audrey was the soul of discretion. That's why everyone told her everything. "Never mind. I can guess. Calve was looking at me in that snide way of hers."