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aware that others were avidly observing this byplay, she tried to silence the ominous buzz that wanted to take possession of her brain.
    Waxfield, whose eyes had scarcely wavered from Tessa’s bosom since the moment of introduction, laughed. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “There’s not a man in London knows more about opera than Allerton. Or opera singers.” He gave Max a little nudge. “Doubt if he’s ever seen a singer to equal you, though.”
    Max seemed to give the innuendo consideration. “You may be correct, Waxfield. It’s rare to find beauty combined with vocal talent. A beautiful heroine adds to the veracity of the drama. But the voice of the singer is more important than her appearance. Where both are present opera achieves the perfect marriage of music and drama. That is what we hope to accomplish at the Regent. But the music comes first.”
    Tessa could hardly argue with an opinion in complete accord with her own. And surely Max wasn’t implying her own talents were lacking in musicality. She decided to take his comment at face value and make polite conversation. Small talk she could manage.
    “All London is talking about your new opera house,” she said.
    “No,” he said, his face harsh, “all London is talking about La Divina, who sings at the Tavistock.”
    She was prepared to accept this compliment graciously and had begun to incline her head in recognition when, in a voice dropped low but still perfectly audible to his companions and his hostess, Allerton continued. “You are too high priced for our humble venture. Somerville, perhaps, is better able to afford you.”
    The Countess of Storrington drew in her breath in surprise. Tessa felt every inch of her skin flush, horrified by Max’s attack. The implication that she earned her fees for more than singing was all too clear. She longed to offer a reply that would hurt him as deeply as he had wounded her. But then, he had no heart. She knew that from bitter experience. Before she could think of a clever retort, Allerton spoke again.
    “I will leave you to enjoy your evening’s triumph, Mrs. Foscari. No doubt this success will yield other lucrative engagements.” He sketched a bow in a manner almost mocking—as if he did not feel she merited such nicety—and moved off directly. Beyond rational thought, Tessa sought relief from the fearful noise in her head before she had to scream. She groped for a porcelain bowl sitting on a side table.
    “Cousin, I beg you won’t,” Jacobin said softly and removed the bowl from her grasp.
    Convulsively clenching her hand, Tessa stared at Max’s receding back, appalled at what she had nearly done.
    “I fully understand your sentiments,” her cousin murmured. “If you will but wait a moment I’ll have a footman bring you something. Do you have a preference for Sèvres or Meissen? Or Chelsea, perhaps. It would be easier to replace. But I cannot allow you to destroy my husband’s favorite Song dynasty bowl.”
    The tension inside Tessa abated. She took a deep breath and managed a rueful laugh. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
    “I do,” Jacobin replied wryly. “I too occasionally have the urge to throw china.”
    Panic retreated further at her cousin’s sympathy, replaced by gratitude that Jacobin’s light-hearted intervention had prevented the kind of scene Tessa would rather avoid. In London she wished to avoid the notoriety she’d achieved in Europe, to find a degree of comfort and serenity in the land she regarded as her own, despite never before setting foot in England.
    She owed Jacobin an explanation as well as an apology. “It’s an unfortunate habit I’ve acquired to hide my discomfort in company, particularly when I’m faced with…awkward situations. My husband advised me to do it when my nerves become unsupportable.” She didn’t add that Domenico had originally suggested the famous tantrums to enhance his diffident wife’s reputation as a temperamental