A Fatal Finale Read online

  “No. The last I heard, the authorities were still trying to identify her.” I let him back me up a bit, before launching a new attack. “I am sorry we didn’t know. I would have notified you myself.”

  His eyes met mine, cold blue. “Really?”

  “Really. I run a respectable company, and I take care of my employees.”

  “Not so well, it seems.”

  “That’s hardly fair.” Thrust. Attack. “I am sorry about what she did, but we had no indication she was desperate.”

  “No?”

  “The role was a big break for her. She certainly seemed happy about it. And before you ask, we protect our in-génues.”

  “Oh?”

  “In every city we stay, they are placed at respectable women’s hotels. And I personally make sure there is no fraternizing.” Since I lost a Juliet to a tenor, but that’s none of his business.

  For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of steel on steel. I clearly had the better of him, but he wasn’t bad.

  “You fence well, Miss Shane.”

  “You also, Your Grace.”

  “I note that you are familiar with the forms.”

  “I am an opera singer with a certain following.” I smiled as I backed him off. “I have been a few places and met a few people.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tommy grinning at that one.

  “I don’t doubt it.” Saint Aubyn’s eyes sparkled. “Might we continue this discussion at some other time, perhaps dinner, without weapons?”

  At that, I took a good hard look at him over the swords. “I am fond of tea at the Waldorf. I do not go out to dinner with men outside my family.”

  His brows flicked up and he almost missed the parry. “What?”

  “I told you, I am a respectable maiden lady and an artist, not a chorus girl.”

  Tommy was laughing, but hiding it well. Of course, I hadn’t said anything untrue; clearly, the Duke of Wherever didn’t understand.

  “Oh.”

  I had him almost in the corner now. “It is not my fault that you can’t tell a soprano from a soubrette.”

  He half-smiled at that, and backed up, giving me a chance to corner him. “Actually, mezzo, no? Most trouser roles aren’t soprano.”

  “I’ll give you that.”

  “Well played.” He tried one more attack, but I’d already backed him up too far to recover.

  “Draw?” I offered in the interest of diplomacy.

  “Draw. Nicely done.”

  We bowed.

  “Try to keep up!” Montezuma pronounced from above.

  Saint Aubyn laughed, completely changing his rather severe features. “Amazon parrot?”

  “Montezuma is a very bad boy.”

  “‘Montezuma’? My mother’s is called Robert Burns. She’s taught him some Gaelic.”

  My turn to laugh.

  “He also sings ‘Sweet Afton,’ naturally, usually when Mother is pouring tea.”

  We nodded together as I put down my foil, and he tossed his back to Tommy, who caught it with a laugh.

  Gilbert Saint Aubyn put his jacket on and favored me with a full, amazing smile. “This was not the conversation I was expecting, Miss Shane.”

  “Perhaps you need to adjust your expectations.”

  “With the new century coming, I suppose I might.” He nodded to me. “Tea tomorrow?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I will look forward to it. And not, I suspect, merely for the information I may gather.”

  He bowed to Tommy and me, bid us a gracious “good day” and walked out.

  Tommy grinned at me as he left. “There goes trouble.”

  “That is a fine figure of a man,” I admitted. “Even if he is an English stick.”

  “‘English stick’!” crowed Montezuma.

  I glared at him.

  “Love the birdie!” he called, cocking his head and giving me the closest thing to an adorable smile that a creature with a blue beak can manage. Like any other male of my acquaintance, he had to have the last word.

  Chapter 3

  Dinner en Famille in Washington Square

  That evening, Tommy and I were alone for dinner, and so, for that matter, was Montezuma, since he was happily devouring seeds and carrots in the studio, as he did at most mealtimes. While Montezuma wasn’t welcome in the dining room, we would have happily shared our table with Rosa, our housemaid; Anna and Louis Abramovitz, my costumer and accompanist—and their adorable small son, nicknamed “the Morsel”; or even Mrs. Grazich, the cook, for that matter, but they were all at their respective homes (in Mrs. Grazich’s case, probably unwilling to break protocol by eating upstairs). Though we shared the comfortable and respectable town house in Washington Square these days, we both remembered far less happy bed and board down in the tenements of the Lower East Side.

  Tommy’s mother, my aunt Ellen, took me in when I was barely eight, after my mother finally succumbed to the consumption she’d been fighting, as long as I could remember, and went to join my father. All I had of my father was his name, and my mother’s stories of the beautiful redheaded Irishman she fell in love with while standing in line at immigration. An outbreak of typhoid carried him off, just about a year after they had married over the objections of almost all of their world. He’d lived to see me, and hold me, and that was about all. It was enough for her.

  I had more of her, including the Sabbath candlesticks that my aunt had amazingly allowed me to light every Friday night, even though she made it clear to the rest of her very Catholic brood that it wasn’t something for them, and I still went to Mass to keep up appearances. By then, I knew enough about the world to be grateful for her understanding, and hope that whoever was in charge of the next world, they were kind enough to let my mother and father be together.

  I’d always had an ear for music, singing while I worked, which was mostly helping Aunt Ellen clean houses for what we’d have called “our betters.” I was ten when I happened to be dusting a piano one day at a lady’s house when she heard me, and sat down at the bench.

  “Sing for me, child. I’ve never heard anything like that.”

  The lady turned out to be the “respectable” sister of Madame Suzanne Lentini. Yes, that Lentini. Within a month after that day, I was dusting Lentini’s piano in return for singing lessons. At first, I was just a pet, like a lapdog with an unusually good party trick. But I turned out to be a coloratura mezzo instead of a soprano like her, and so no threat as a protégée. Even better, I shot up to my full height early. Lentini and her manager, Art Fritzel, realized a tall girl with a big voice and the scrappy attitude to carry off a boy’s role could be a sensation. And indeed I was.

  A word here about “trouser roles, ” with an apology for the inevitable indelicacy. A couple of hundred years ago, there were a good number of castrati, men who’d been, well, un-manned, to keep their voices high. In our modern age, thankfully, we do not believe in such barbarism. But there were a good number of heroic roles written for these unfortunates, and someone has to sing them. Which brings us to me, a woman who has the vocal range to sing the part well, and the acting ability to perform believably enough.

  I don’t doubt that some people, men, in the audience are more interested in the frisson of an attractive woman in trousers, especially since there is no other respectable circumstance where a man might see a woman’s legs in public. But this is opera, not the dance hall, and I am responsible only for my art, not what people think. Anna always makes my costumes with modesty in mind, and I am very careful to avoid vulgarity in my movements, so, really, any ill you may see is entirely in your own mind.

  Lentini was my first Juliet, when I was still Romeo’s age. I spent the next several years playing the opera houses in the City, occasionally going on the road with Lentini, including an amazing London run, and even a few solo bookings.

  Everything changed when Lentini and Fritzel decided it was time to retire together to the Amalfi Coast, an absolute
lightning bolt to anyone used to watching the regal diva and her small, scruffy manager argue about quite literally everything. Tommy had just defended his title with an impressive win, but I knew he was wretchedly unhappy, despite it all. I had several offers from companies in the City and elsewhere, but none felt right. I wasn’t at all sure what I would do with myself without my mentors, until I met up with Tommy after a sparring session one afternoon, and it all suddenly fit together. He had an old trainer who served as his official manager, but he did most of his own bookings, logistics and other things, being the smart Irishman on the make that he is.

  We were walking back to the small, but comfortable, house where we’d ensconced Aunt Ellen and the younger ones (Uncle Fred was gone by then) when I looked hard at him.

  “You’re not happy.”

  “I’m a champion. Nobody will ever call me a ‘sissy’ again. What’s not to be happy?”

  That was true, as far as it went. He had spent a couple of terrible years on the wrong end of street scuffles before he grew seven inches in six months and started boxing. The tenement toughs sensed something different about him, whether it was his kindness to me, his open love of books and music or his unwillingness to join their attacks on easy targets. And it was true; he wasn’t like the neighborhood brutes, and that was not a bad thing.

  It was not until I was older, with a little more knowledge of the world, that I understood it was more than that. Many large Irish families have a brother who doesn’t marry, and they quietly accept him as just not the marrying kind. Most of the time, people are glad of a single brother or uncle to live with an elderly parent, or take an interest in the care and education of a special niece or nephew. Aunt Ellen’s brother Joe, her favorite after my father, cared for their widowed mother for many years, and always watched over the two cousins who were his godchildren.

  Playground taunts like “sissy” might be muttered in an especially nasty family fight, but, usually, everyone manages happily enough, unless private matters somehow become public, and no one wants that. Better not to ask a question you don’t want answered. The brother who doesn’t marry is family and we love him, and that is always the most important thing.

  For our part, Aunt Ellen and I knew Tommy would never bring home a wife, and were actually rather glad we would not have to share him with any other woman.

  “Toms, I know you.” I’d slipped my hand in his as I’d done as a little girl relying on her older cousin for protection. “You’d be happier doing something else.”

  “I’m not fit for much, Heller.”

  “Pish. You’ve fought your way to the top, and you manage your career brilliantly.”

  “‘Manage’?” He smiled down at me, understanding immediately. “Are you thinking about what happens now that Lentini and her little friend are leaving for Amalfi?”

  I shrugged. “With a good manager, I could have a great solo career.”

  “Turn my skills from pugilism to art?”

  “Something like that. It might be fun. It would certainly be safer.”

  “All right, Heller. Let me think about it.”

  He hadn’t needed much time to think at all. He retired before his next title bout—a very good thing, since the man he would have fought killed his opponent—and devoted his energies to the Ella Shane Opera Company tours and my solo engagements. And these days, if anyone uses words like “sissy” around Tommy, I slug ’em.

  Well, I would, if I had to. Tommy was right. No one would believe “the Champ” and those slurs belong in the same sentence, much less dare use them in his presence. People either assume he chose to take care of me and Aunt Ellen instead of marrying, or that some unknown girl broke his heart. Good enough outside the family.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Heller,” he said as he tucked into a generous portion of Mrs. Grazich’s shepherd’s pie.

  “Ancient history.” I took a bite of my own. She is a magnificent cook. Nobody wants a Romeo who looks like Brünnhilde, but I eat very lightly the rest of the day, not to mention taking fencing and dance practice almost daily, so I permit myself a fairly substantial dinner. “Ah, there’s very little better than a good shepherd’s pie.”

  “Good Shepherd?” Tommy chuckled. “Well, the pie is divine.”

  “Father Michael would absolutely approve.” And would probably be over to enjoy some of Mrs. G’s excellent cookery before the end of the week. That would send Mrs. G into raptures, since she loves cooking for the priest, and considers him a good influence. She watches over us like a lioness, though she’s not nearly old enough to be the parent of grown-ups, and she’s still quite pretty, with a sweet smile and a crown of braided blond hair.

  “Yes, the good father.” He smiled at the mention of his best friend as he sipped some lemonade; we don’t usually have wine at dinner because we often have engagements or performances after—we are NOT one of those sanctimonious temperance houses. “Well, speaking of the excellent works of the Lord, what are you going to do about the Duke of Whatever?”

  “First I am going to check his bona fides as much as I can. Then I am going to see what we have in our files about poor little Violette. And then, I am going to get a good night’s sleep before I meet him for tea.”

  “I don’t know what our files will have other than what Henry gave us about her. We really didn’t know her very well.” Tommy toyed with his fork as he thought for a moment. Henry Gosling is our booking agent, and he held the first audition for sopranos, sending us the three best. “Why don’t I drop by Henry’s office tomorrow while you’re sipping the convivial beverage with His Grace?”

  I chuckled, as he’d intended. We both read far too much and collect precious expressions. “Assuming, of course, that he is indeed His Grace.”

  “I didn’t notice anything off. Upper-crust vowels and diction, very good but not flashy clothes, slightly antique manners?”

  “All true. But there was a trace of somewhere else in the accent. Not much, just enough to make me wonder.” I shrugged. “Probably nothing.”

  “Never hurts to be on your guard.”

  “Isn’t that the truth!” I put down my fork. “We can settle the question of the duke right now.” I got up and walked to one of the big bookshelves. The town house isn’t large enough for a separate library, and since we are both ferocious bookworms, there are volumes everywhere. “We can at least find out if there is such a person, even if not that it’s him.”

  My Debrett’s Peerage was actually a bit dusty now, dating back to my first trip to London. I’ve been educating myself since my two spotty years of primary school, but I was absolutely not going to get caught short in England. So I’d read everything I could find about the empire on which the sun never sets, including buying a number of reference works like Debrett’s and several etiquette manuals. I opened it and flipped through.

  “So? Is he on the up?”

  “Well.” I scanned the page. “There is indeed a Dukedom of Leith—border lord, up near Scotland, which would explain the accent—and the current incumbent does, in fact, answer to Gilbert Saint Aubyn.”

  “All right, then.”

  I tapped the entry. “Age is right—midforties. Could be him.”

  “And?” Tommy asked archly.

  “What?”

  “Come on. It’s not the aristocratic studbook for nothing. Is he free?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Even if he were, he wouldn’t come calling here. He would consider me a bit of fluff to be enjoyed and cast aside . . . and I’m damn sure not that.”

  Tommy smiled at my (not entirely unusual) profanity and shook his head. “Fifty years ago, maybe. He sure didn’t look at you like you were a bit of fluff. World is changing, Heller.”

  “Not fast enough, Toms.” I read the listing. “But, at least as of this edition, yes. Widowed—wife Millicent died more than ten years ago. Two sons, the traditional ‘heir and spare.’ Both adults now.”

  “What about our little Violette? Marriageable daught
ers are listed somewhere in there, too.”

  It took a little time to sift through the apparently rather prolific Saint Aubyns, but I found her, exactly where the duke said she would be. “Yes. Her too.”

  “So either he’s on the up, or there’s a person who’s impersonating the Duke of Leith.”

  “Looks it. Now that I’ve made sure the people and dates are right, and we have an explanation for that accent, I’m willing to give it some credence.”

  “Heller, every man in the world is not one of your vile backstage admirers. Tommy shook his head. “I wonder if you’d be so cautious if he were some ugly old curio instead of a rather decent duelist in his prime.”

  “Not that good a duelist. I gave him the draw.”

  He grinned. “And if he’s a very nice duke, perhaps you’ll give him the time of day, too.”

  I tossed my napkin at him. “Enough. We have much to do before we sleep.”

  Sleep, however, eluded me for much of the night. I kept waking up back on that stage in New Haven, with a girl I realized I’d never known at all, wondering if I could somehow have changed the outcome.

  Chapter 4

  A Proper Cup of Tea

  A lady who makes her living in a perhaps unladylike way must be especially vigilant as to her behavior. Particularly, when the lady in question practices a profession perilously close to that of the chorus girl, the preferred companion of many a gentleman of the world. So I err very much on the side of propriety at all times. Hence, the tea at the Waldorf.

  It is true, as far as it goes, that I do not go out to dinner with men outside my family circle, if ever, and that I have absolutely no intention of becoming some swell’s pet singer. As a blunt Lower East Side girl, I might observe—of course, to myself alone—that I’m nobody’s whore. For public consumption, I put it more delicately, if equally emphatically: I am married to my art.

  But at least part of that is because my art is probably the only suitable match for me. I am, unfortunately, reasonably sure that there’s not the man living who would be a true companion. Quite honestly, I have no desire to trifle with anything less. Anyone who would be worthy would not be put off by my religion or my difficult childhood, but he would likely have a problem with my devotion to my career. So I poured my energy and love into my work, family and friends—and if on occasion I wished I did not sleep alone in my lovely brass bed, well, that was my business.