So far no one had.

The musical entertainment began soon after Frances’s arrival, and she took her seat beside Mr. Blake to enjoy the other performances, though she did assist with the first item on the program, an étude on the pianoforte played by Betsy Reynolds, the thirteen-year-old daughter of the house, who was also a day pupil at Miss Martin’s. Frances was her music teacher and helped her position her music and murmured encouragement to her until the girl’s nerves were sufficiently under control that she could begin.

The recital went well, if not brilliantly, and Frances smiled warmly at Betsy when she had finished, and got to her feet to hug her before Betsy was sent off to bed.

Frances’s own turn came almost an hour after that. She was, in fact, the final performer of the evening. Supper would be served after she had finished.

“I daresay, Miss Allard,” Mr. Blake whispered, leaning closer to her as Mrs. Reynolds was getting to her feet to announce her, “you have been kept until last because it is expected that you will also be the best.”

Mr. Blake had not heard her sing. Neither had anyone else in the room except Mr. Huckerby, the school’s dancing master, who was to accompany her. But Frances smiled her gratitude anyway. The familiar butterflies were fluttering in her stomach.

She had chosen an ambitious and perhaps not quite appropriate piece for the occasion, but “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth” from Handel’s Messiah had always been a great favorite of hers, and Mrs. Reynolds had given her free rein in her choice of music.

Frances stood to a polite smattering of applause and took her place in the middle of the drawing room beside the pianoforte. She took her time, preparing her breath with a number of slow inhalations and exhalations, closing her eyes for a few moments while she thought her way into the music.

Then she nodded to Mr. Huckerby, listened to the opening bars of music, and began to sing.

As soon as she did so, all her nervousness fled and along with it most of her awareness of her audience, her surroundings, and her very self.

The music took on an existence of its own.

Having settled Amy in the drawing room with Mrs. Abbotsford and her daughter, both of whom had welcomed her warmly into their midst, Lucius had spent most of the evening in the card room, though he had sat in for only a hand or two himself. For the rest of the time he had stood watching his grandfather play, conversing with fellow guests who had wandered in from the other room, and trying not to dwell upon how excruciatingly bored he was.

He would have gone into the drawing room when the musical entertainment began since he was partial to music even if that provided at a Bath soiree was sure to be insipid at best. But Mr. Reynolds managed to corner him first and launched into a lengthy, prosy discourse on the virtues of hunting as a thoroughly English and aristocratic sport and the evil natures of those who opposed it, whom Lucius gathered must be deemed unnatural traitors to their very country. He watched his grandfather for signs of weariness and half hoped that he would see some. Although his London self would be nothing short of horrified at the prospect of having to return home so early in the evening, his Bath self could only think longingly of sitting with his feet up in the sitting room on

Brock Street

, reading a book.

Reading a book, for the love of God!

Of course Amy would be bitterly disappointed if such a thing actually happened.

The Earl of Edgecombe, however, appeared to be happily absorbed in the play. His winnings and losses were about evenly balanced. Not that the stakes were high anyway. They rarely were in Bath, where the Masters of Ceremonies had always frowned upon heavy gambling.

The music was clearly audible. It began with a rather plodding étude on the pianoforte, which Reynolds explained was being performed by his daughter, though he made no move to go into the other room to play the role of proud parent—or even to stop talking in order to listen. There followed a violin sonata, a tenor solo, a string quartet, and another recital on the pianoforte, performed by someone with a surer and more skilled touch than Miss Reynolds had displayed.

Lucius gave the music as much of his attention as he could. Fortunately, he realized within a couple of minutes that he needed to bend only half an ear to Reynolds without danger of missing anything significant in what the man had to say.

And then a soprano began to sing. At first—for just a very few moments—Lucius was prepared to turn much of his attention away from her performance. The female soprano voice was not his favorite, its tendency being all too often to shrillness. And this soprano had made the mistake of choosing a sacred piece for a very secular party.

However, in those same few moments he realized that this soprano was very far superior to the norm. And within a few moments more he had focused all of his attention on her and her song, leaving Reynolds to address the air about him.

“I know that my Redeemer liveth,” she sang, “and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth.”

Indeed, very soon a number of the other guests in the card room, and even a few of the players lifted their heads and listened. Conversation did not stop entirely, but it decreased considerably in volume.

But all this Lucius did not even notice. The voice had captured his whole being.

It was rich and powerful without being overbearing. It had the full quality of a contralto voice but could soar to the highest notes without effort or even a suggestion of shrillness or strain. It was a voice that was as pure as a bell, and yet it resonated with human passion.

“Yet in my flesh shall I see God.”

It was without all doubt the most glorious voice he had ever heard.

He closed his eyes, a frown of almost pained concentration creasing his brow. And finally Reynolds, perhaps realizing that he had lost his audience, fell silent.

“For now is Christ risen from the dead,” the voice sang on, joyful and triumphant now, carrying Lucius’s soul with it.

He swallowed.

“The first fruits of them that sleep.”

He felt a touch on his sleeve and opened his eyes to see his grandfather beside him. Without exchanging a word, they moved together toward the drawing room.

“For now is Christ risen.” The voice gathered itself for the soaring climax. “For now is Christ ri-sen, from the dead.”

They arrived in the doorway and stood side by side, looking in.

She stood in the middle of the room, tall and dark and slender and majestic, her arms at her sides, her head lifted, classically beautiful but using only her voice with which to captivate her audience.

“The first fruits—” she held the high note, let its sound and triumphant acclamation linger and begin to die away, “of th-em that sleep.”

She stood with lifted head and closed eyes while the pianoforte played the closing measures, and not a person in the audience moved a muscle.

There was a brief silence.

And then enthusiastic applause.

“Dear God,” the earl murmured, joining in.

But Lucius could only gaze as if transfixed.

My God! My God!

Frances Allard.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and inclined her head in acknowledgment of the applause, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing, her smooth, dark hair gleaming in the light cast down upon it from the chandelier overhead. Her eyes moved over the audience until they reached the doorway and . . .

And locked upon Lucius standing there gazing back.

Her smile did not falter. Rather, it froze in place.

In that fraction of a moment it seemed that the whole world must have stopped spinning.

And then her eyes moved onward until her smiling face had thanked the whole audience. She then made her way toward an empty chair on the far side of the room, close to where Amy sat with her hands clasped to her bosom. A gentleman rose as Frances approached, bowed to her, and repositioned the chair before she sat down on it. He bent his head close to hers to make some remark to her.

“That was quite, quite splendid, Miss Allard,” Mrs. Reynolds was saying with hearty joviality. “I was well advised to position you last on the program. My dear Betsy was quite right when she said you sing superbly. But I am sure that after sitting for a whole hour everyone must be ready for supper. It will be served immediately in the dining room.”

“Lucius,” his grandfather said, setting a hand on his shoulder as everyone stirred and the room filled with the buzz of conversation, “I have rarely if ever heard a voice that so moved me. Whoever is she? If she is someone famous, I do not recognize the name. Miss Allen, is it?”

“Allard,” Lucius said.

“Let us go and pay our compliments to Miss Allard,” the earl said. “We must invite her to sit with us for supper.”

She was on her feet again. Several of the other guests were crowding about her to speak with her. She had a bright, fixed smile on her face. She was determinedly not looking their way, Lucius saw. Mrs. Reynolds, smiling graciously, had made her way to her side and saw them coming.

“Ah, Lord Edgecombe,” she said in the sort of voice that made everyone else stand back to give them room, “may I have the pleasure of presenting Miss Allard to you? Does she not sing divinely? She teaches music at Miss Martin’s school. It is a very superior academy. We send Betsy there.”

Frances fixed her eyes on the earl and curtsied.

“My lord,” she murmured.

“I have the honor, Miss Allard,” Mrs. Reynolds continued, clearly puffed up with the pride of having such illustrious guests in her own home, “of making known to you the Earl of Edgecombe and his grandson, Viscount Sinclair. And his granddaughter, Miss Amy Marshall.”