Shana Galen - [A Lord & Lady Spy Novella] Read Online Free Page A

concern of his.
    His gaze met hers, full of complete understanding. And censure. Would he never forgive her?
    “I would not be in the least surprised.”
    “No, you wouldn’t.” He didn’t think she’d ever change, and she was done with people who watched her and waited for her to make a muddle of her life again. She had changed, but she was not going to prove it to him. She didn’t care one way or another what he thought. She simply wished him to leave.
    “I’ll return the cloak,” he said, turning toward the door.
    “Don’t bother. I’ll get another.”
    He looked at her. “This isn’t the end, Helena. I—”
    “Go!” She yanked the door open and pushed him through it. “Just go.”
    She slammed the door in his face and leaned against it. She would not cry. He was not worth it, and she’d already cried lakes of tears over Ernest Bloomington. Signora Giansante opened her door and began screaming, and Helena covered her ears and crawled back in bed.
    It was a cold bed, and she was alone, and her throat burned with thirst.

Three
    She woke in time for a light dinner before she was due at the theater for rehearsals. A quick check of her finances was most disheartening. She could afford little more than soup and day-old bread. Signor Pacca, the purveyor of Teatro di San Carlo, owed her a share of the profits from L’Italiana in Algeri , but as was the usual way of things, he had not yet paid her or any of the other singers. She might have gone to work in another theater, but it would be no different.
    She dressed in a caramel colored gown with rich brown piping and ventured out to buy her meal. Now she regretted giving Blue her cloak. The weather had not improved, although it was no longer snowing. The cold was so bitter that the clear late afternoon sky looked ready to crack. She ate quickly in the small café where she purchased her meal and a cup of steaming coffee. She could not afford the coffee, but she was so cold she could not resist. Then she hurried to the theater, intent on pilfering whatever cloak or coat she could unearth in the costumer’s room.
    She pulled the heavy rear door open and immediately a rich tenor voice wafted over her. She stood in the dark of a scene dock for a long moment, listening to “ Dalla sua pace ” from Don Giovanni . She knew the voice. It was Andre. He was an ass, but he had a beautiful voice.
    “There you are,” Carolina said, hurrying toward her from the direction of the stage manager’s office. The mezzo-soprano had curly blond hair she wore pinned to the top of her head in artful disarray. “Pacca told me to give you this.”
    Helena took the sheet music. “Signor Pacca isn’t here?” Only the principle singers were required to attend rehearsal today, but she had thought Signor Pacca would be lurking somewhere.
    “He had an important meeting.”
    “Of course he did.” Helena sighed. “He’ll pay us.”
    “Eventually,” Carolina agreed. “There’s a new accompanist.” She made her way toward the stage and Helena followed, stepping gingerly over ropes and pulleys and dismantled pieces of the L’Italiana in Algeri set.
    “Where is Renzo?”
    “He has another engagement. He promises to play in the show, but he couldn’t be here for rehearsals.”
    “You mean he found paying work.”
    “Yes. But the new pianist is really rather attractive. I don’t mind him at all.” Carolina pushed the curtain aside, and the footlights, bright oil lamps lit along the floor of the stage, momentarily blinded Helena. She shielded her eyes and discerned the figures of Andre and Damiano, who sang baritone, beside him.
    Six or eight chairs were scattered around the stage, and Andre had his hand on the back of one, while Damiano lounged negligently in another. On a third was draped a familiar cape.
    Helena realized Carolina was still speaking. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
    “I said,” Carolina whispered, leaning close. Every little noise carried when one was