“I have, I believe, met you before, Mrs. Melford,” she said, “and you too, Miss Driscoll. It was many years ago, though, when my husband was still alive. And you are Miss Allard.” She smiled at Frances. “We have heard much about you and are greatly looking forward to hearing you sing after dinner. And I must thank you for being so kind to Amy when she was in Bath. It irks her to be the youngest in the family and to have to wait another year for her come-out.”

“She entertained me most graciously when I took tea at

Brock Street

, ma’am,” Frances assured her. “I was made to feel quite at home.”

There were nine people gathered in the drawing room, she had noted—rather more than she had expected. That made twelve altogether. But that fact surely could not account for the nervousness she felt. Or perhaps nervousness was the wrong word. She had not slept well last night or been able to settle to any activity today. The anger with which Viscount Sinclair had parted from her after escorting her home had bothered her ever since. For the first time she had been forced to consider the possibility that he really did have deep feelings for her, that his pursuit of her was not motivated merely by lust or thwarted will or impulse.

She could not escape the conclusion that he had been hurt yesterday.

And she was sorry then that she had not simply told him the whole story of her life. It could not matter now, could it? And it would have finally deterred him, shown him that a marriage between them was quite impossible.

The viscountess presented everyone to the new arrivals. The pretty, fair-haired young lady with the dimple in her left cheek when she smiled was Miss Emily Marshall. The earnest young gentleman with spectacles pinching the bridge of his nose was Sir Henry Cobham, Caroline Marshall’s betrothed. The other couple were Lord and Lady Tait. From her resemblance to Emily Marshall, Frances guessed that Lady Tait was an older sister.

The evening proceeded well enough after the introductions had been made. Frances avoided Viscount Sinclair, a task made somewhat easier by the fact that he seemed equally intent upon avoiding her. She sat between Mr. Cobham and Lord Tait at dinner and found them both easy conversationalists. Her great-aunts were both in good spirits and clearly enjoying themselves.

All that remained to do, Frances thought as the meal drew to an end and she watched for Lady Sinclair to give the signal for the ladies to withdraw and leave the gentlemen to their port—all that remained to do was sing for the pleasure of the earl and her aunts, and then they could take their leave and the whole ordeal would be over.

Tomorrow, or more probably the next day, she would return to Bath. And this time she was going to immerse herself fully in her life there and her work as a teacher. She was going to forget about Mr. Blake—it was unfair to try to force herself into welcoming his interest when she felt no regard for him beyond a mild gratitude. She was going to forget about beaux altogether.

Most of all, she was going to forget about Lucius Marshall, Viscount Sinclair.

She thought about the music she would sing and tried to get her mind prepared. Her only wish was that she could sing in the drawing room rather than in the music room. The latter seemed just a little too magnificently formal for a relatively small family entertainment. However, she supposed it would look different with the panels shutting it off from the vaster ballroom.

“Miss Allard,” the earl said suddenly, addressing her along the length of the table, “it has seemed in the last few days that it would be just too selfish to keep your performance all to ourselves. And so Lucius has invited some friends to join us after dinner in order to listen to you. We considered that the surprise would please you. I hope it does.”

Some friends.

Frances froze.

She did indeed mind. She minded very much.

This was London.

“How splendid!” Great-Aunt Martha exclaimed. “And how very thoughtful of you both.” She beamed first at the earl and then at the viscount. “Of course Frances does not mind. Do you, my love?”

How many were some? Frances wondered. And who were they?

But her aunts, she could see, were fair to bursting with pride and happiness. And the earl could not have looked more pleased with himself if he had been holding out to her the gift of a diamond necklace on a velvet cushion.

“I will be honored, my lord,” she said.

Perhaps some meant only two or three. Perhaps they would all be strangers. Surely they would, in fact. She had not been here in three years.

“I knew you would be pleased,” the earl said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction. “But the honor is all ours, I assure you, ma’am. Now. You will not wish to be fussed with having to be sociable to other guests for the next little while. You will wish to relax quietly before you sing. Lucius will escort you to the drawing room while the rest of us proceed to the music room. Lucius?”

“Certainly, sir.” Viscount Sinclair got up from his place farther along the table and extended an arm as Frances rose from her place. “We will join you in half an hour?”

Frances set a hand on his sleeve.

The dining room and drawing room were not on the same floor as the music room. No particularly noticeable sounds were coming up from below. Nevertheless, Frances had an uneasy feeling that there would be sounds—of people—if only they were to descend the staircase.

“How many people are some friends?” she asked.

“Already, Frances,” he said, opening the door into the drawing room and ushering her inside, “you are sounding annoyed.”

“Already?” she said, turning to face him. “I will be even more so, then, when I know the answer?”

“There are people with a quarter of your talent who would kill for the sort of opportunity with which you are to be presented tonight,” he said.

Her eyes widened.

“Then give the opportunity to them,” she said, “and save them from having to commit murder.”

He cocked one eyebrow.

“And what sort of opportunity?” she demanded to know.

“I daresay you have not heard of Lord Heath,” he said.

She stared mutely. Everyone had heard of Lord Heath—everyone who was musically inclined, anyway.

“He is a renowned connoisseur and patron of music,” he explained. “He can promote your career as no one else in London can, Frances.”

That was what her father had once said. He had been planning to bring her to the baron’s attention, though he had said that it would be very difficult to do since everyone with even a modicum of musical talent was forever pestering him to listen.

“I have a career,” she said, “and you have taken me away from it in the middle of a term under largely false pretenses. I will be returning to it within the next day or two. I need no patron. I have an employer—Miss Martin.”

“Sit down and relax,” he told her. “If you work yourself into a fit of the vapors, you will not be able to sing your best.”

“How many, Lord Sinclair?” she asked him.

“I am not sure I can give you an exact number,” he said, “without going along to the music room and doing a head count.”

“How many? Approximately how many?”

He shrugged. “You should be glad,” he said. “This is the chance for which you have waited too long. You admitted to me yesterday that this was both your dream and your father’s.”

“Leave my father out of this!” She suddenly felt cold about the heart and sat down abruptly on the closest chair. She had had a ghastly thought. “The panels that divide the music room from the ballroom had been removed yesterday. Your sister drew your attention to the fact and reminded you to have them put back in place. Has it been done?”

“Actually no,” he said. He strolled to the fireplace and stood with his back to it, watching her.

“Why not?”

Dear God, the combined rooms would make a sizable concert hall. Surely that was not—

“You are going to be magnificent tonight, Frances,” he told her. His hands were clasped at his back. He was looking at her with an intensity that might have disconcerted her under other circumstances.

Yes, that was the intention, she realized. The panels between the two rooms had been removed deliberately because the audience was expected to be too large for the music room alone. And they had done it—he had done it—without consulting her.

Just as he had brought her to London by trickery, without consulting her wishes.

“I ought to walk out of here right now,” she said. “I would if doing so would not make my great-aunts appear foolish.”

“And if it would not disappoint my grandfather,” he said.

“Yes.”

She glared at him. He stared back, tight-jawed.

“Frances,” he said after a few moments of hostile silence, “what are you afraid of? Failing? It will not happen, I promise you.”

“You are nothing but a meddler,” she said bitterly. “An arrogant meddler, who is forever convinced that only he knows what I ought to be doing with my life. You knew I did not wish to return to London, yet you maneuvered matters so that I would come anyway. You knew I did not want to sing before any large audience, especially here, but you have gathered a large audience anyway and made it next to impossible for me to refuse to sing before it. You knew I did not wish to see you again, but you totally ignored my wishes. I think you really do imagine that you care for me, but you are wrong. You do not manipulate someone you care for or go out of your way to make her miserable. You care for no one but yourself. You are a tyrant, Lord Sinclair—the worst type of bully.”