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Hawthorne, whom, out of the corner of her eye, she could see in conversation with the Marquess of Somerville and another gentleman.
    Her hope that Allerton was on the other side of the room was dashed. Jacobin led her toward the paunchy older man who stood chatting with Hawthorne. Of course he had to be chatting with Hawthorne. Such was her luck.
    Jacobin stopped behind Max and tapped on his black-clad shoulder.
    “Excuse me for interrupting,” she said. “Please allow me to present you to my cousin, Signora Foscari. Tessa, this is Lord Allerton. Also”—indicating the other two—“Lord Somerville and Sir Henry Waxfield.”
    Tessa wasn’t sure how she managed to retain enough self-assurance to curtsey. Only years of experience in the public arena prevented her from gaping like an idiot at the discovery that the enormously wealthy impresario of London’s new opera house was also her former love. Panic seized her throat and she doubted she was capable of uttering a single word.
    Apparently he was not so affected. He looked down at her with maddening self-assurance.
    “Mrs. Foscari and I have met,” he said in a voice that would freeze morning chocolate.
    “Really?” Jacobin asked. “You didn’t say so, Tessa. Or maybe she doesn’t remember you, Allerton.” Her tone was teasing then her smile faded. Apparently she noticed the frigid atmosphere.
    “It’s been many years,” Tessa said softly. It took all her courage to speak at all, let alone with any degree of calm. “He was Mr. Hawthorne then.”
    *
    Max knew he’d have to meet her and he was ready. He’d decided not to acknowledge their previous acquaintance unless she did. He had not counted on the potency of Tessa’s presence. La Foscari’s presence, rather. The press of guests around them made the distance between them a mere yard or so. The room’s chatter faded from his consciousness, as did every soul in it. When Lady Storrington introduced them he managed to utter a few words with little idea what he was saying.
    “Of course you know Madame Foscari, Allerton.” Sir Henry Waxfield was speaking now. “You’ve been abroad often since Waterloo and must have caught her in some opera house or other.” Having settled the question to his satisfaction, the pompous baronet addressed his next question to the guest of honor. “Must have been awkward, madam, traveling around Europe during all the years when Bonaparte was always at war with some country.”
    “Sometimes it was troublesome,” she replied coolly, obviously not a whit discomforted by Max’s presence, while he was agitated by the discovery that her speaking voice, soft and sweet, hadn’t changed. Suddenly she was Tessa.
    “Were you ever in danger?” Lady Storrington asked.
    “Fortunately not,” Tessa replied, “though one time I was almost caught between the lines of the Austrian and French armies. The coachman had taken the wrong road and we didn’t know where we were until he heard gunfire.”
    “By Jove,” Waxman said. “How did you escape?”
    “I came through safely due to the chivalry of soldiers. A troop of Austrians on reconnaissance stopped my carriage and the officer recognized me.”
    She laughed. She and Max had shared a great deal of laughter as they explored the old streets of Oporto together. Now there was a brittleness to her mirth, a false note that had probably always been there but he had been too naïve and besotted to detect.
    “He offered to escort us under flag of truce,” she continued. “The Austrian, a very handsome man of excellent family, was also acquainted with my companion Signora Montelli.”
    Two or three others crowded around them to hear the diva’s tale, which she delivered with dramatic effect. As he listened Max took the opportunity to examine her unobserved. She was tall for a woman and as capable of commanding a drawing room as she did the stage. Trying to observe her dispassionately, he wondered if the kind of glamour she cast over