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her surroundings was due to her fame. Would she seem as fascinating if she were unknown? The latter, he fancied. God knew he’d been equally struck when he first met her. One look at Tessa Birkett and he’d been head-over-heels and painfully in love. Except there had been no pain, only blinding joy when he thought she returned his feelings. The pain had come later and his heart ached anew as he’d hoped it never would again.
    “After several miles, we approached the French line and we were terrified,” Foscari went on. “A small platoon came out to meet us, muskets raised. Would the truce hold or would we be met with a barrage of bullets?” She held the audience in the palm of her hand.
    “What happened?” someone asked amid several gasps.
    She shrugged. “Nothing. Rien de tout . My Austrian gallant explained to the French captain that I was Teresa Foscari and had been admired by the emperor. He kissed my hand and rode away, leaving us under the protection of the French. The capitaine took us to the French camp where he served us wine. We drank a toast to l’empereur and the art of music, then he sent us on our way to Paris.”
    “What a marvelous story,” Lady Storrington said. “And was the French officer as handsome as the Austrian?”
    “But of course, and just as charming.”
    “It’s wonderful that appreciation of great art transcends the conflict of nations.”
    Great art, my eye ! Max didn’t believe a word of it. Teresa Foscari had surely been given safe conduct on the French side because she was known to be the emperor’s mistress. Quite possibly she’d given herself to the Emperor of Austria too. Why stop at two emperors when she could have three? His chest tightened and his head threatened to burst. God damn her to hell.
    *
    Max hadn’t spoken a word during her recitation, for which Tessa was profoundly grateful. The story was one she’d told dozens of times. She knew it as well as any operatic role and could have delivered it in her sleep. It was always well received and she never spoiled it with ugly truths about war: the ruined farmland and wretched peasants, mostly women and children; the constant cannonades, out of sight but audible all the way; the bodies of soldiers along the roadside and the groans of the wounded in the French camp. Why ruin a pleasant evening?
    Unfortunately someone else had the power to do just that.
    Jacobin turned to Max. “Where did you and Madame Foscari meet?” she asked. “Didn’t you go to Vienna last year?”
    “We met in Portugal,” Max said. Tessa couldn’t read his mood but had no reason to think his clipped tones friendly. “Miss Birkett, as she was then known, performed at the opera house there. I don’t recall which role.”
    “Despina in Cosi fan tutte ,” Tessa said.
    “Madam, it appears that your memory is better than mine.”
    “Since it was my operatic debut, it isn’t an occasion I’m likely to forget. I’m sorry it made so little impact on you.” How could he have forgotten? At the time he had told her she had dazzled him with her talent and her beauty. Only two weeks later he had declared his eternal love, a love she had discovered later was nothing but lust. Now, as she stared at the cold black eyes of the older Max, she realized, to her humiliation, that she wanted him to admire her still, secretly hoped he regretted the past.
    “Of course I knew little of opera then and cared less.” True enough, at least the first part. He’d pelted her with questions about her roles and her craft, seemed endlessly fascinated by tales of life on and behind the stage. New to the theater herself, she’d done her best to satisfy his voracious curiosity.
    “How fortunate,” she rejoined with a touch of sarcasm, raising her chin and holding onto her poise by a slender thread, “that the insipidity of the occasion didn’t spoil you forever for the art.”
    “Since those days,” Max said, “I’ve learned to appreciate it.”
    Vaguely