Covent Garden was a malodorous and overwhelming place, seething with people and trade, stinking from the mess of mud, manure and hundreds of dwellings pressed cheek to jowl. The grander of its buildings, frequented by the rich when they needed diversion, were beacons of light and beauty in a sea of deprivation.
Grace marched inside the opera house and found the manager. Once he learned she was a countess, he gave up the whereabouts of Romola Bianchi in a heartbeat. Whether or not he was scandalised by a woman of rank seeking a humble singer in a seedy part of London, he did not say, but Grace had the impression he was used to being discreet. As was her husband, it seemed.
A dark journey down dingy corridors brought her to Romola’s lodgings. All around her, Grace could hear voices raised in laughter, cries and shouting, and her palms grew moist, and her heart started to gallop. Was this folly of the worst kind? But the manager banged on Romola’s door with the side of his fist and declared her presence before she could take flight.
‘Romola. Rouse yourself.’
An angry voice hit back from within. ‘I paid my rent. Go away, you bloodsucker.’
He banged again. ‘If you’ve company, declare it, for I have a visitor for you. High-class, too.’
‘Go to hell and stay there, Morbius. I know you lie.’
The man turned to Grace. ‘She’s hoping for a fine gentleman. What a jape when she sees you instead. Her pretty face will fall, to be sure.’
There was a scrabbling noise, and the door swung open. ‘This had better be good, Morbius or else….’ Romola Bianchi’s voice trailed away, and her mouth fell open. But she soon regained her composure. ‘What do you want?’ she sneered.
‘I need to speak to you regarding my husband,’ said Grace.
The opera manager leaned in to listen. ‘You may go. I thank you for your trouble,’ said Grace, pressing a coin into his greedy fingers. The man nodded and withdrew, though she could see him lurking within earshot.
Romola gave him a lazy glance. ‘You’d best come in, if you dare, so that he can come back and press his ear to the door. He is a terrible sneak, you see.’
Grace entered, and Romola closed the door with a bang. She stood and stared at Grace, eyes scouring up and down. Then suddenly, she banged on the door with astonishing violence. A howl came from the other side of it, and she grinned. ‘Now we are shot of him. What can I do for you, Lady Voss?’ she said archly.
Grace could not imagine the source of her arrogance for Romola Bianchi was much changed since their last encounter. She wore no garish makeup, and without it, her face had a mere bland prettiness. There was an air of tragedy to it, evidenced by dark-circled eyes and cheekbones standing proud on her face. The woman had lost a great deal of weight and her voluptuousness along with it. Romola seemed pitiful in her shabby robe and stained nightdress, squaring her shoulders for a fight.
‘You need not fear what I have come to say,’ said Grace. ‘I do not mean to berate you for your connection with my husband. I merely ask for the truth of it.’
‘Oh, the truth is dangerous, Lady Voss. It can be the death of you.’ Romola reached up to tether a strand of hair that had come loose from her bun.
Grace froze as her eyes travelled to Romola’s arms. The woman quickly tugged down the sleeves of her robe, but it was too late. Two jagged pink slashes, one on each arm, told the tale. This was not the angry, frightening woman who had challenged her for Rawden’s affection. This was a broken and desperate woman. Her eyes met Romola’s. ‘What happened?’ said Grace.
‘Since when did I share confidences with the likes of you?’ replied Romola.
‘Since you saw my husband recently. Miss Bianchi, I need to know if he makes fools of us both.’
‘Aren’t you fancy women of the ton supposed to turn a blind eye to your husbands’ indulgences?’ Romola laughed bitterly and walked to the bedside table. It was littered with trinkets, an old plate with a crust of food scraps hardened on, and a bottle of what appeared to be gin. Romola took a swig from it and stared out the window at the bustle of London below. ‘Do not fear, Lady Voss. Your husband only makes a fool of me.’
‘But I heard that he came to see you lately. Is that true?’
‘It is. But he did not come to make love to me. As you can see, my light is somewhat dimmed of late.’ Romola gave a high, little laugh.
‘Dimmed by him?’
There was a pause. ‘Dimmed by life itself, the curse that is my womanhood, the cruelty of men. I could go on, but you did not come to hear me whine. You came here to find out if your husband still creeps into my bed.’ She turned to Grace, her lip twisting into a sneer. ‘I wonder that you can demean yourself so, and you a countess too.’
‘I would suffer any humiliation for Rawden,’ blurted Grace with horrible honesty. For the first time, she realised it to be true.
‘Why?’ said Romola.
‘I have grown fond of him.’
Romola’s face fell, and all her pride with it, like leaves falling from a tree, leaving just bare emotion. ‘Then you have my sympathies, truly.’
‘Please, tell me the truth of what Rawden is to you. Do me that kindness, at least.'
‘There is no kindness in the truth. Even your cossetted upbringing should have taught you that by now.’
