Read Online Guarded Heart by Jennifer Blake - Free Book Online

embracing the vision, then turning to pour from the chocolate service. “Ariadne, permit me to present a diva of talent extraordinaire who will be singing at the Theatre d’Orleans. Zoe, here is another of my dear friends, Ariadne Faucher. Sit, sit, both of you, drink your chocolate and let us be comfortable together.”
    Maurelle moved to the settee beside Ariadne, giving Madame Savoie the fauteuil she had been using so they made a circle around the low table where the chocolate tray sat. Madame Zoe began at once to demolish the pile of meringues on their stand while she and Maurelle caught up on the latest scandals and quarrels in the theater, the bankruptcies and gaming losses among its backers and the problems with upcoming productions. The opera star was witty, outrageous and often ribald, but not snide or spiteful in her opinions. Ariadne liked her at once.
    â€œYou must come to see me in my benefit performance next week, Ariadne. Maurelle has a box and will bring you. Yes, Maurelle? There, all is arranged. And you will both invite as many handsome men as you may find, if you please. I do adore looking at them when I sing of desperate passion—one must have inspiration, you know. Some of these sword masters of yours will do nicely, Maurelle, married or unmarried makes no difference since I mean to look instead of seduce, more’s the pity. Of course, I might make an exception for the Englishman, Blackford.”
    â€œLe diable!” the parrot chortled, presumably to himself. At the same time, he lifted a foot and scratched vigorously at his ear, as if clearing his hearing.
    â€œWhat a charming companion!” Ariadne said, certain the bird’s comment had been accidental even if describing Blackford as a devil did seem particularly appropriate. “Have you had him long?”
    â€œOh, forever, fifteen years at the very least. Napoleon was given to me by an admirer in Havana. Unfortunately, his vocabulary had already been corrupted when he came to me. Pay no attention to him.” The parrot, perhaps hearing some inflection which allowed him to know he was the subject of conversation, stretched his neck to preen the feather on his mistress’s hat. “Stop that, you fiend, or I’ll put you in the pot like a chicken,” she scolded with affection in her voice. To further dissuade him, she handed him a piece of meringue which he took in one claw and immediately began to crumble upon her shoulder.
    Eying the bird’s beak that seemed as tough as a horse’s hoof but with a much sharper edge, Ariadne asked, “Does he never hurt you?”
    â€œNot I,” the diva said with a deep laugh. “He thinks I’m his inamorata or else his mother, which one I’ve never been precisely sure. He is most caressing, I promise you. He never soils me—not that you asked, but so many do. Most other people he views as prey and pinches with his beak. The exception is Monsieur Blackford whom he tolerates, barely, for the sake of the pecans he brings him.”
    â€œHe visits you, the Englishman?”
    â€œIn my dressing room, yes. He comes to see me every season I am here, regardless of the production. Not that he sheds tears like the beautiful swordsman Rosière, but I shiver, positively shiver, to hear his shouts of ‘Brava, Brava!’ in his so English voice. It’s lovely to be appreciated, do you not agree? Naturally, I send to invite him backstage, and we have an occasional dinner.”
    â€œNaturally,” Maurelle murmured.
    â€œYou begrudge me?” the singer inquired with the lift of a brow. “You want him all for yourself? But chère, he is so fascinating with the quickness of his mind that advances, parries and ripostes like the flashing of his sword. I listen with my mouth catching flies. And the subtlety of his insults, like the cut that only begins to bleed long after it is made. So droll he is, too, at times, yet he has such