Two Little Lies

Eight

In which Lady Charlotte becomes Shockingly forgetful.

D ecember settled over Buckinghamshire like a mantle of gray wool, each day shorter than the last. Then came two days of wind and rain. At Hill Court, Viviana was seized with a restlessness which no one else seemed to share. The children had fallen into a happy routine of study and play, and were well entertained by Lady Alice’s children, whose governess brought them over almost every afternoon.

Lord Chesley was a devoted host, but he preferred to spend his time with the gentlemen in the music room, observing “the miracle of creation,” as he called it. Viviana spent an hour each morning seeing to the running of the household with Mrs. Douglass, a duty Chesley had charmingly foisted off on her. The rest of the forenoon was devoted to her harp or her violin.


Nowadays, however, even her music no longer soothed her as it had done during some of her darkest and loneliest days in Venice. When it failed her now, she would simply leave the house to walk or to ride if it was not raining—and sometimes even the ill weather did not deter her. Rarely did anyone wish to accompany her. The chilly English air, Viviana found, had its advantages.

It was just such an afternoon when she was stopped by the gentlemen in the music room. “Why, there she is now,” she heard Chesley cry out. “Most fortuitous!”

Her father had turned round on his stool near the pianoforte. “Vieni qui, Vivie,” he said, eagerly motioning her inside. “Sit, sit!”

“Sicuro, Papà.” She went in, still carrying her cloak and gloves, and took the chair he had offered.

Lord Digleby had risen from the pianoforte’s bench. “Have a look, Contessa,” he said eagerly as he passed a sheet of roughly marked music to her. “This is Maria’s last aria, when she discovers Orlando making love to her maid. What do you think?”

A little nervously, Viviana scanned it, mentally humming. The lyrics she had already seen, but the music was new to her.

“Here is the opening,” said Digleby, sending his fingers crashing down in a dramatic fashion. But the passage soon turned dark and heart-wrenching, and Viviana could see that the beauty of the lyrics was intended to take over. Her father’s eyes followed Digleby’s hands on the keyboard as a father might watch a much-loved child. Indeed, his music was much his progeny as was Viviana herself.

The music came to a halt. Viviana tried to hand the sheet back. “It is lovely, Lord Digleby. Utterly haunting.”

Digleby smiled a little tightly. “How kind you are, Contessa,” he said. “Your father and I wrote it together. But can you sing it, please, and give us your suggestions?”

“My suggestions?”

“Here, for example,” said her father, pointing to a particular passage as he spoke in rapid Italian. “I think it may be too funereal, when it needs instead to soar. I must hear you sing it to be sure.”

Viviana stood, and laid the sheet on the pianoforte. “Oh, you cannot possibly need my help,” she insisted. “It is quite perfect as it is.”

Her father gestured at the music. “Dio mio, Vivie!” he said impatiently. “Sing! Sing!”

“Oh, give it a try, old girl,” said Lord Chesley from the sofa. “I must admit, I am eager to hear it first from a master.”

“Va bene,” she agreed.

There was nothing else to be done. She had known, eventually, it would come to this. And so she stood, her knees shaking a little, and snatched the sheet from the pianoforte. Digleby smiled, and played the opening chords again. The haunting feel of the melody began to emerge, then to dominate. Viviana filled her lungs and began to sing.

The lyrics began simply enough. The betrayed Maria was plotting revenge against her faithless lover, and the words and music reflected it. Viviana tried to do the piece justice, but several times she faltered, and had to look to the gentlemen for direction. Once her father stopped her, snatched the sheet, and altered the notes slightly. He passed the sheet back.

“Continue, cara mia,” he said, lifting his hand.

Viviana stumbled on. Of course, no one expected her to sing well on a rough first pass. The music was yet half-formed, the gentlemen themselves still unsure of just how they wished it to sound.

Apparently, she did not bungle it too badly. When she finished, Lord Chesley stood, applauding enthusiastically. “Brava, brava, my girl!” he said. “You still have the voice of an angel.”

Viviana was not at all sure that was the case. She glanced at her father to gauge his response. But he and Lord Digleby had turned back to the pianoforte, already haggling over what changes needed to be made.

Chesley caught her hand as she passed. “You look pale, my dear,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “I am well enough, Chesley, thank you.”

“You are bored,” he said, frowning. “This damned weather has cooped you up. You are used to a life of glamour, and two or three handsome men fawning over you at every turn.”

“That is hardly the case,” she murmured.

Chesley laughed. “It is always the case when I see you, my dear girl,” he said. “Now, what to do for this rustic ennui? I know! We shall have a dinner party!”

Viviana smiled wanly. “That would be lovely.”

With one last squeeze to her hand, Chesley let her go and returned his attention to the music. In the passageway, Viviana tossed her cloak across her shoulders and drew on her gloves, then made her escape into the cold winter’s day.

She would walk, she decided, into the village. She had seen a dressmaker’s shop there, and she needed a few warmer, more serviceable things to see her through the English winter. Surely neither Quin nor his mother would frequent the village shops?

The walk was less than a mile, and she saw no one until she entered the village outskirts. Her trip was cut short, however, as soon as she passed by Arlington Park’s massive gates. A gig was parked by the gatehouse, attended by a servant. A handsome young man was coming out of the front door carrying a brown leather satchel. In the doorway, Lady Charlotte leaned upon a brass-knobbed stick, eyeing him a little nastily, as if to reassure herself that the gentleman was indeed departing. Her keen eyes did not miss Viviana.

“Good afternoon, Contessa!” she called in her quavery voice. “Do come in. I’m just ridding myself of this plague, as you see, and have no one else to amuse me.”

The young man paused by the gig and offered his hand. “I am the plague,” he said, bowing neatly over her hand. “Dr. Gould, at your service.”

“I hope I shan’t require them,” said Viviana with a smile. “But I am glad indeed to meet you. I am Contessa Bergonzi.”

He smiled warmly. “I guessed as much,” he said. “We get few such celebrated visitors here.”

But Lady Charlotte was looking impatient now. Viviana could see no polite way of refusing her, though she could not imagine why Quin’s elderly aunt would wish to see her, particularly given the circumstances of their last meeting. But it was for those very reasons Viviana could not refuse her. To do so would have looked…well, guilty.

“You must be frozen through,” said Lady Charlotte when they were comfortably situated in her front parlor. “I must find Mrs. Steeple, and tell her to send tea.”

Viviana raised her hand. “Please do not put yourself to any trouble on my account.”

“Nonsense,” she said.

Lady Charlotte was gone but a moment. She settled back into her chair with a gleam in her eye. “How lovely of you to visit me, Contessa,” she purred. “The elderly live such quiet existences, we must look to the young for our window on the world.”

Viviana looked at her appraisingly. “My window has narrowed considerably, I fear,” she said. “May I ask, ma’am, after your health?”

“I’m quite well, thank you.” Lady Charlotte looked puzzled.

“You have recovered, then, from—from your fall at Arlington Park?”

“Oh, that silly business!” said the old lady. “Yes, yes, they do say I fainted. I’ve no memory of it.”

Viviana wasn’t sure she believed her. Perhaps Lady Charlotte was simply being polite. Still, it was time to change the subject.


Lady Charlotte beat her to it. “I do admire your wardrobe, my dear,” she remarked, eyeing Viviana’s bottle green walking dress. “Such vivid colors. Such instinctive élan. You must feel like a hothouse orchid amongst a field of common daisies here in our little English village.”

“My hair is jet-black, and my skin is too pale,” Viviana murmured. “I have always felt I needed color.”

“I agree,” said the old lady. “We English ladies have such insipid taste.”

Viviana turned the subject again. “You spoke of a window on the world, ma’am,” she said. “Have you seen much of it?”

“Oh, by no means!” said the old lady, leaning intently forward. “You have visited places I can only dream of. Tell me, Contessa, what is Vienna like? I have always wished to go there.”

Viviana hesitated. “Well, from the little I saw, it was very grand,” she said. “I sang in two productions at the K?rnthnerthor, but we had little time for pleasure.”

“In my day, we scarcely knew what opera was,” said Lady Charlotte wistfully. “Nowadays it is said to be the great new thing. Can you imagine?”

Viviana smiled. “I was simply born to it,” she said. “I never thought of it as new or fashionable.”

“Ah, yes!” she said. “And you were born in Venice?”

“No, in Rome,” she said. “We moved nearer to Venice when my father acquired a patron there. We lived in a villa on his estate.”

“Well, when I was your age, plays were the thing,” said the old lady. “I actually saw Voltaire’s Irène, when it opened in Paris. The great man himself was there. It was my only real trip abroad—if one considers France to be so.”

“You chose well. Paris is very lovely.”

“You’ve sung there, too, I daresay?”

“Many times,” Viviana agreed.

The old lady went on to ask a number of mundane questions about the capitals she had visited and the important people for whom she had performed, until even Viviana began to feel bored. What on earth could Lady Charlotte find so interesting in the career of a has-been soprano? Just then, a young woman came in pushing a trolley which seemed overladen with delicacies.

“Heavens, what a lot of food for only two,” murmured Viviana.

But the servant was lingering uncertainly. “Hello, miss,” she finally said. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Viviana looked up and sprang at once to her feet. “Lucy—?” she cried, lifting one of the woman’s hands in her own. “Oh, Lucy! What a surprise! Oh, cara mia, how could I forget you?”

“Have you met our Lucy, Contessa?” Lady Charlotte looked surprised.

“But yes, she looked after me for a time,” exclaimed Viviana. “She was sent to me by Lord Chesley when first I came to London. And I have not been so well cared for since.”

Lucy blushed. “You always were kind, miss.”

“Lucy comes in on Wednesdays to help Mrs. Steeple,” Lady Charlotte explained. “But she has four children now who take up most of her time.”

“Lucy, let me look at you.” Viviana caught her other hand. “Four children!”

“And all healthy, miss,” said Lucy.

“This is such a pleasant surprise,” said Viviana breathlessly. “And your family? They are well?”

“My sister keeps house for Squire Lawson now,” she said. “And Aunt Effie is still at Hill Court.”

“Why, I had quite forgotten Mrs. Douglass was your aunt.” Viviana smiled. “I did hear, of course, that you’d married your handsome footman, but I got the impression you’d moved away.”

“Oh, just to the next village,” said Lucy. “Joe came into a little money, miss. He bought the Queen’s Arms near Lower Hampden.”

“How happy I am for you,” said Viviana, dropping Lucy’s hands. “I must call on you one afternoon.”

“I wish you would, miss,” said Lucy shyly. “I’ve something I’d like to show you.”

Viviana lifted her shoulders. “Well, I’ve nothing to do this afternoon,” she said. “What time do you start home?”

“I’ll be another hour, thereabouts,” said Lucy, looking a bit embarrassed. “But it’s a far piece, miss, if you’ve no carriage. Do you mind the walk?”

“Indeed, I should be glad for it.”

“All right, then.” Lucy bobbed a little curtsy and started to go, but just then, the sound of a carriage drawing up distracted her. “That’ll be his lordship and Lady Alice,” said Lucy. “Shall I let them in, ma’am?”

Lady Charlotte looked suddenly confused. “Who?”

“Lord Wynwood and Lady Alice,” said Lucy, looking at Lady Charlotte oddly. “They’re to take tea with you, ma’am. Had you forgotten?”

“Oh, dear!” said Lady Charlotte. “Have I got myself mixed up again? It cannot be Wednesday already, can it?”

Viviana looked at her suspiciously. “You must be patient with the elderly, my dear,” murmured Lady Charlotte, as Lucy left. “When you are old, you will marvel at what one can accidentally forget.”

Viviana did not believe this was an accident. But she had little time in which to consider it, for Lucy had thrown open the parlor door, and Alice was sweeping across the room to greet them, her arms wide.

“What a delightful surprise, Viviana!” she said. “Aunt Charlotte did not mention she’d invited you.”

Lady Charlotte was looking very small and frail now. “I must have got my days mixed up, my dear,” she said, offering her cheek to be kissed. “And Quinten! Come here, my boy. You know Contessa Bergonzi, of course.”

Quin bowed stiffly in Viviana’s direction. He did not look pleased to see her. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he murmured. “I trust I find you well?”

Viviana forced a polite smile. “Quite, I thank you.”

She did not, however, feel especially well. She said little as Quin and Alice settled in and took a cup of tea from their aunt. Viviana had the sensation of having just walked into a room in which she was not wanted—even resented, perhaps. The vow of peace she had shared with Quin seemed to have been declared null and void on his part. No doubt he resented her presumption in calling upon his aunt. But what choice had she had in the matter?

She realized Lady Charlotte was urging a plate of sandwiches in her direction.

“Thank you, no,” she murmured.

“I was fortunate to catch the contessa on her way to the village this afternoon,” said Lady Charlotte, setting the plate away. “I had to beg her quite shamelessly to visit me.”

“Viviana does love her long walks,” said Lady Alice. “And her long rides, too.”

“Alice tells me you have three children,” said Lady Charlotte. “How lovely that they have traveled to England with you.”

“I do not like to be away from them,” Viviana admitted. She could feel the heat of Quin’s stare burning into her.

“I do so love little ones,” said the old woman. “What are their names and ages, pray?”

Viviana hesitated. “Cerelia is my eldest,” she said. “Felise is in the middle, and my son, Nicolo, is little more than a toddler.”

“Nicolo is Conte Bergonzi di Vicenza now,” added Alice. “I collect he looks very like his father?”


“Yes, a little,” she admitted. Liar, Viviana thought. He looks exactly like his father—which was a very good thing, she supposed, for a boy who was to inherit such a title, and the wealth and power which came with it.

“And how long were you married, my dear?” asked the old lady. “Was it a love match? Or did your families arrange it?”

Viviana was taken aback. “Why, about seven years,” she answered. “It was a marriage arranged by my father whilst I was living in London.”

Lady Charlotte clucked sympathetically. “So you did not know him, then? That must have been difficult.”

“No,” said Viviana swiftly. “I mean, yes. I did know him. Bergonzi was my father’s patron. As I said, I grew up in a villa on his estate.”

“Ah!” said Lady Charlotte. “That made it easier, I daresay.

Easier than what? Viviana wondered. Easier than bearing a child out of wedlock? But she was not at all sure of that now. She was not at all sure that, had she the chance to do it all over again, she would not have chosen to live her life as a scandalous, fallen woman.

“And how is your brood, my dear?” said Lady Charlotte to her niece. “Has Christopher got rid of that cough?”

Alice grinned. “It lasted just as long as Lucy’s homemade horehound drops,” she admitted. “And then we had a miraculous recovery. Where is Lucy, by the way?”

“In the kitchen.” Lady Charlotte brightened. “Did you know Lucy used to work for Contessa Bergonzi? They met again this very afternoon.”

Alice looked at her in some surprise.

“Yes, when I first came to London,” said Viviana quietly.

“Why, I remember!” said Alice. “Uncle Ches sent Lucy to London to look after for one of his protégés. Was that you, Viviana? Oh, how I wish I had met you then!”

Viviana felt herself blush. Quin had twisted in his chair and was studying a landscape hanging above the mantel with grave intensity. Suddenly, Alice’s eyes lit with mischief.

“Quin,” she said sharply, “you knew Viviana when she lived in London, did you not?”

Quin returned his gaze to the ladies and cleared his throat. “I—yes—I believe we did meet.” His brow furrowed. “Did we not, Contessa?”

“Si, Lord Chesley introduced us,” Viviana murmured.

Lady Charlotte clapped her hands with delight. “How fascinating!” she said. “Did you never run into one another afterward?”

Viviana opened her mouth, then closed it again. Alice played a dangerous game, for she’d already had part of the story from Lord Chesley himself. As to Quin, his posture had gone rigid, his face pale. He was ashamed of what she had been to him. Well, damn him. She was not proud of it, either.

“I think we met again, once or twice,” she answered. “I am not perfectly sure.”

Quin was eyeing her over his teacup, his eyes hard and dark. “We met again,” he said tightly. “Once or twice.”

“Oh, come now, Quin!” said Alice teasingly. “Uncle Ches told me you were madly in love with her!”

“In those days, I fell madly in love with a frightening ease,” he coolly returned. “Young fools tend to do that.”

Alice looked as if her fun had been spoilt. Abruptly, she took another tea cake and nibbled at it.

Lady Charlotte smiled benignly at her grandnephew. “And how long do you intend to rusticate, my boy?” she asked. “London is not calling you yet?”

Alice winked at her aunt. “London has suddenly become a very small town, I’m afraid,” she said. “It is not quite large enough to hold Sir Alasdair MacLachlan and Quin just now.”

Lady Charlotte blinked owlishly. “Oh, dear! I hope, Quin, that the two of you have not quarreled? I like Alasdair, even if he is an unabashed scoundrel.”

“Well, his days as a scoundrel are over,” said Alice. “Depend upon it.”

Her brother rolled his eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake, Alice!”

“Well, we might as well all behave sportingly about it.” Alice paused to brush a crumb from her skirt. “Sir Alasdair will be announcing his betrothal to Miss Esmée Hamilton shortly,” she went on. “Mamma had it from Lady Tatton herself.”

“Good Lord!” said Lady Charlotte. “Is Lady Tatton pleased?”

“Not especially, no,” said Alice, pausing to pluck a biscuit from the tea table. “Ooh, is that a macaroon? I must have one. No, Lady Tatton isn’t thrilled, but she acknowledges, I daresay, the delicacy of the situation. They are to be married in the spring, and as soon as the weather clears, they are going to Castle Kerr for a very long visit.”

A dead silence fell across the table. Quin looked as if he’d like to strangle his sister. “Castle Kerr?” said Lady Charlotte lightly. “Where is that?”

“In Argyllshire,” said Alice. “It is Sir Alasdair’s seat.”

“Ah, I did not know,” said Lady Charlotte.

“They are to spend much of the spring and summer there,” Alice went on. “It will be very dull in town this season, I daresay, without Sir Alasdair to stir up any scandals.”

Viviana imagined his marriage would be scandal enough for two or three seasons. Unfortunately, she was more than a little complicit in that unfortunate mess. Suddenly, Viviana could bear it no longer. She jerked abruptly to her feet. “I am sorry,” she stammered. “I had best go finish my errands. Thank you, Lady Charlotte, for your hospitality.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t, my dear!” said the old lady. “We are all amongst friends here. Besides, you’re to wait on Lucy.”

“I shall return for her later.”

“Well,” said Alice, “if Viviana is leaving, I believe I shall have that last macaroon.”

Quin, too, came to his feet. “Pray do not get up, Aunt,” he said. “I shall see the contessa out.”

Alice’s eyes flickered with interest, then cut a swift glance up at Viviana. “It was lovely to run into you, my dear,” she said. “Shall I see you tomorrow for battledore?”

“Yes, as you wish,” said Viviana. “Thank you, and good afternoon.”

Wordlessly, Viviana retraced her steps, pausing only long enough to retrieve her cloak. She did not look at Quin, whose tread was heavy behind hers. She went down the stairs, her mind in turmoil.

Good Lord, this was adding insult to injury for Quin! Sir Alasdair MacLachlan was one of his dearest friends. No wonder he looked like a storm cloud. And what had Alice been thinking, to bring it up in such circumstances? Their accidental meeting had turned into a fiasco. She was angry; angry with all of them, herself included—but most of all, she was angry with Quin. His cynical remark about falling in love had cut her, and deeply.

She put her hand on the doorknob just as Quin grasped one of her shoulders from behind. His grip was firm. Heat radiated from his body, warming her spine. “Viviana, wait.”

She whirled about to face him. “Why?” she snapped. “And why must you follow me, Quinten? We have nothing further to say to one another. What must your aunt and sister think?”

His eyes glittered darkly. “They think something’s afoot,” he gritted.

“Oh, I have no doubt of it!” she agreed. “So why are we standing here together?”

His jaw had hardened to match his eyes. “Damn it, Viviana, did it never occur to you that perhaps we ought to get our stories straight? These questions shan’t stop, you know. Not until one of us leaves this village.”


“Yes, and whose fault is that?” she asked bitterly. “But by all means, Quinten, let us get it over with. I am tired of this subtle inquisition. What was that place yesterday? A cottage, you called it?”

“A cottage, yes.”

Viviana narrowed her eyes. “Be there tomorrow at one, then,” she challenged. “Be there, and let us settle this once and for all. And while we are there, perhaps we can think of some way to avoid running into one another again.”

He stepped back with a soft oath. Viviana jerked open the door. She rushed down the steps, still carrying her cloak across her arm, heedless of the cold. She hastened into the little lane which led through the village, but instead of turning left toward the High Street and its shops, she turned right and retraced her steps but a few yards, pausing near the corner of the gatehouse’s side garden.

She stood there for a moment, grappling for strength and reliving the feel of Quin’s fingers digging into her flesh. Damn it, he was right, loath though she was to admit it. The Spanish Inquisition was nothing compared to Lady Alice’s probing and Lady Charlotte’s sly meddling. But what sort of fool was she, to arrange to meet Quin in secret?

He wished them to get their stories straight. And there had been a raw frustration in his voice and some other nameless emotion with it. Perhaps he wished for something else altogether. Would she agree to that, too?

Suddenly, she did not know. Dio! She did not know, and it terrified her.

For nine long years, she had hated him. Hated him for making her love him. Hated him for making her doubt herself and what she had done to survive. And now she had arranged for them to meet. Alone. At that run-down little house in the middle of nowhere. And he had agreed quite readily.

Perhaps he was in need of another mistress, now that his pretty bride had run into the arms of his best friend. Suddenly, guilt assailed her anew. She should never have gone to his study that day. Just as she now had no business going back to that cottage.

A door slammed in the distance, recalling her to the present. Viviana looked about and saw Lucy coming around the corner of the house with what looked like a mop bucket. She tossed the contents unceremoniously into the shrubbery.

“Lucy!” Viviana hissed.

Lucy peered into the shadows toward the lane. “Is that you out there, miss?” she asked. “Are you ready to go, then?”

Viviana hastened toward her. “When you are ready,” she answered. “You mustn’t hurry on my account.”

But Lucy was drying her hands on her apron and looking at Viviana strangely. “Just let me fetch my cloak, miss,” she said. “And if I were you, I’d be wearing that one, and not carrying slung over my arm like this was May Day.”



The walk to Lower Hampden was not so long after all. By the time they reached Lucy’s house, a pretty whitewashed cottage which sat some distance from the actual village, Viviana had managed to relax and put Quinten Hewitt from her mind. It was wonderful to laugh with Lucy about old times. During their early days in London, Viviana’s imperfect English, combined with Lucy’s rustic expressions, had made for some humorous misunderstandings.

Looking back on it, Viviana realized just how much they had shared. Both of them had been homesick and a little frightened of London. Viviana was sorry they had not kept in touch, but Lucy did not read or write. Nonetheless, Viviana had managed to hear bits and pieces from Chesley, enough to learn of Lucy’s marriage and her first child. Then Lucy had moved away—or so Viviana had understood.

Lucy pushed open the heavy wooden door, and the delicious aroma of ginger and the tang of dried apples wafted on the air. Inside, the house was dark and still. The older children, Lucy explained, were still at the village school, whilst the youngest, a little boy, was under the care of her husband’s mother, who lived next door to the Queen’s Arms.

“Joe don’t really care for me working,” said Lucy as she bustled about the kitchen. “He says it’s not proper for a tavern keeper’s wife. But once in a blue moon, Aunt Effie needs me up at Hill Court. As to Lady Charlotte, ’tis but once a week. And I remind Joe that she’s old and set in her ways. I know how she likes things done. And she won’t always be around, will she?”

“None of us will,” murmured Viviana.

“Besides,” Lucy went on, “there’s no money changes hands since the old earl died.”

“What do you mean?”

Lucy set two mugs and a heavy earthenware pitcher on the table. “If I do for Lady Charlotte when I’m needed, Mr. Herndon said, then Lord Wynwood agreed we could stay here rent-free,” she said. “And frankly, miss, I don’t want my young ones hanging about tavern folk all the livelong day—and especially not at night.”

Lucy poured what looked like cold, delicious cider and settled down in a chair near Viviana. After a few sips and a little more idle chatter, she leapt up, and motioned Viviana into one of the side rooms, a small bedchamber.

The bed inside was draped with a blue woolen counterpane, and beside it sat a cradle carved of solid oak.

“It’s a beauty, miss, ain’t it?” said Lucy, giving it a little nudge with one finger so that it gently rocked.

Viviana understood at once. This, then, was her gift to Lucy. She had bought it, just as Viviana had asked all those years ago. “Lucy, it is the prettiest cradle I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve laid me four babies in that cradle now, miss, and thought of your kindness every time,” said Lucy. “And—oh!” She turned to a small deal chest, and drew open the top drawer. “Here is the little gown you sent when Hannah was born. I wish you could have seen her, miss, I really do. Pretty as a proper little lady, she was.”

But Viviana was still staring at the empty cradle and fighting down an unexpected wave of maternal yearning. “Our children are our most precious possession, are they not?” she said quietly. “The joy, and sometimes the sorrow, which they bring us cannot be understood by one who has not raised them.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Quietly, Lucy shut the chest drawer, and slowly turned to face her. “Miss, forgive me for asking, but…but why did you do it?

Viviana turned and drifted back toward the tidy kitchen. “Do what, Lucy?” But she was afraid she knew what Lucy was asking.

“You know,” she answered. “To just up and leave London like that. To marry someone else. It’s not my place to say, miss, but it don’t seem right, somehow.”

“Right for whom, Lucy?” asked Viviana quietly. “For my child? Would it have been better for her to be born a bastard?”

“I’m not saying that.” Lucy drew out a chair at the table for Viviana, then picked up the earthenware pitcher of cider again. “But perhaps…perhaps you didn’t give Mr. Hewitt a chance.”

“I gave him a chance,” said Viviana, dropping her gaze. “He did not wish to marry. Not to me. I was not surprised, of course. So I kept my pride—and I kept my troubles to myself.”

Lucy sat down abruptly. “Lord Gawd, miss!” she whispered. “You didn’t tell him?”

Viviana stared into her cider and shook her head.

Lucy’s opinion was plain in her tone. “You ought to have done, miss,” she warned. “Really, you still ought. It don’t seem wise to keep such a thing from a man.”


Viviana’s head jerked up. “Tell him now?” she echoed incredulously. “Dio mio, Lucy! What good would that do my daughter? She is the only person who matters now. Her father made his choice.”

“Well, it’s not my place say,” Lucy repeated. “But I was the one, miss, left to explain your haring off like that to Mr. Hewitt. You weren’t there. You didn’t see him.”

“My leaving spoiled his fun, si?”

Lucy looked at her chidingly. “Oh, miss, it weren’t like that,” she said. “Devastated, he was—and not quite right since, if you ask me.”

“Oh, Lucy!” she said. “You are having romantic imaginings.”

Lucy frowned. “Well, I do live here, miss, not a mile from Arlington’s back gates,” she said. “Pr’haps I don’t see the family regular, but I know a thing or two about what goes on up there. And he’s not happy. Any fool with eyes can see that.”

Viviana almost wished Lucy spoke the truth. How pathetic that was!

“Well,” said Lucy after a moment had passed, “do as you think best, miss. I believe you’re wrong, but you can depend on me to keep my mouth shut. And your husband’s dead now, so I reckon that part’s laid to rest.”

Lightly, Viviana touched Lucy’s arm. “Lucy, I did not lie to Gianpiero, if that is what you think,” she said. “He wished desperately to marry me. I—I told him I carried a child.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. “And he married you anyway, miss?” she answered. “Many a man would not have been so kind.”

Viviana’s mouth twisted. “It was not a kindness,” she said.

“What, then?” Lucy looked at her blankly.

Viviana hesitated. “It was a matter of possession,” she finally said. “Gianpiero wished to make certain I did not slip from beneath his thumb and vanish again. Not unless he wished it.”

“And so you struck a bargain, miss? Is that it?”

“A devil’s bargain,” Viviana whispered. “My body for his name.”

Lucy’s expression soured. “It is often the way of men, isn’t it, miss?”

“It is the way of most men, I sometimes think.”

Lucy lifted one shoulder. “Well, my Joe’s been a good man to me,” she said. “I guess that Gianpiero must have wanted you something frightful.”

Frightful. Yes, that was one word for it. “He said that he did,” Viviana whispered. “And he married me, Lucy, with his eyes open, knowing that I did not love him. But I was a good wife. I did not wish him dead. I swear, I did not.”

Lucy leaned forward, and patted her hand where it lay upon the table. “Well, just put it from your mind, miss,” she said soothingly. “It’s water under the bridge now.”

At Viviana’s quizzical look, Lucy smiled. “It means that what’s done is done, and no point mourning over it,” she clarified, pushing away the mug. “Now, I suppose I’d best hasten up to the Arms and get little Teddy. Will you come along with me, miss? I know it’s just a tavern, but it’s a respectable enough place.”

Viviana smiled, and pushed her chair back. “I should be pleased, Lucy, to go. Very pleased indeed.”



The feeble afternoon sun had finally emerged by the time Lord Wynwood and his sister departed their great-aunt’s house. They left Lady Charlotte in good spirits, intent upon paying an afternoon call to the vicar, which was yet another duty Quin had neglected.

Suddenly, he decided to neglect it just a little longer. Squinting his eyes against the low sun, Quin helped Alice up the steps into his carriage. “You go on without me, Allie,” he said when she had settled in. “I cannot bear another call today.”

Alice frowned down on him. “We shan’t be over half an hour,” she said. “Really, Quin! What has got into you? And how will you get home?”

“I shall walk,” he answered. “The fresh air will do me good.”

He did not wait to hear his sister’s further protests and set off in the direction of the footpath, a shortcut through the woods. He had no taste for the endless round of social calls which life in the country now required of him. Instead, he found himself surprisingly eager to return to Arlington. He wished to summon Herndon to his office so that they could discuss the planned repairs to Chandler’s granary.

After his day spent touring tenant farms, Quin realized it was also time to review Herndon’s list of projects, to see what other urgent needs had been left hanging. And in doing all of this, Quin had begun to feel the faintest stirring of usefulness. That feeling had been bolstered by Herndon, who had seemed grateful, and eager to begin the work. They had parted quite amicably. And yet, Quin had been avoiding his estate manager ever since.

Quin looked up to see that the rolling grounds of the gatehouse had given way to the dense patch of forest which encircled Arlington Park. Within, it was darker, and a little colder, too. Quin realized he had not fastened his greatcoat, and did so at once. He thought again of Herndon, and wondered what, if anything, he ought to say to the man. There was something which had been weighing on his mind.

That same evening he had given Herndon his list, Quin had escaped the house after dinner in a strange state of mind. Still disconcerted by his little contretemps with Viviana at the cottage, Quin had decided to walk alone in the Tudor garden. At least, he had believed himself alone—until he had seen Herndon with Alice.

Quin still could not quite put his finger on what it was that had so disturbed him. Perhaps it was the way they had walked, like the very dearest of friends, their heads so close together they almost touched. Or perhaps it was his sister’s light, lilting laugh; the one he had not heard since well before her marriage. But most likely, it had been the expression of unadulterated joy which he had caught on Herndon’s face.

Quin had always thought of his estate manager as being stern, almost emotionless. He certainly had not looked emotionless with Alice. And Quin had felt—well, not anger. He had not even felt that Herndon was being presumptuous. He had felt…envy. Yes, that was it. Envy that someone—two people, actually—whom he admired so thoroughly could find such joy in one another’s company.

Quin wondered if he would ever know that kind of joy. Oh, he had known pleasure and comfort aplenty—perhaps too much of the former. He had had the good life handed to him on a crystal platter, and fed to him with a silver spoon. He knew it, and was not ungrateful. But where joy should have been there seemed only a restive emptiness.

Of course he had once loved Viviana—or thought he had—and he had experienced a great many emotions in her company. A rushing, crashing riptide of emotions. Angst. Pleasure. Jealousy. Desire. But joy? No, that he could not recall.

Yes, he envied Alice and Herndon. He wished them both very happy, though he deeply doubted they would find happiness together. His mother would put a stop to that. And he could not manage Allie’s problems for her. He could barely manage his own.

Just then, something hard struck the top of his beaver hat, bounced off, and landed on the path. Quin stopped and picked it up. A conker—round, brown, and perfect. And enormous. For a moment, he studied it, boyhood bloodlust surging in his heart. He weighed the nut in his hand. Yes, a sixer, for sure. He would not even need to wheedle Mrs. Prater into baking this one. It could probably take out a pane of glass at a hundred paces. Feeling silly, and strangely sentimental, Quin slipped his prize into his pocket.


But no sooner had he set off again than another struck him, a little harder this time. And this time he did not miss the spate of soft giggles which followed. He turned all the way around on the footpath, the hems of his greatcoat swirling out around his boots. Nothing. And then he looked up, as he should have done at the outset.

From amongst the bare branches, a soft, perfect oval of a face looked back at him. Viviana. But not Viviana, either.

“I saw you,” said the child in the tree.

Quin picked up the horse chestnut. “I noticed,” he said, tossing it up at her.

She tried to catch it and failed miserably. “No, I meant I saw you at the amphitheater,” she said, scrabbling down one branch as if to better study him. “Nadia was flirting with you. I think she wanted you to kiss her.”

Ah, the fetching little acrobat! He had quite forgotten. But he had not forgotten the child. “You’d best come down, Cerelia,” he ordered. “You are up too high—unless you have become an acrobat since last we met.”

“I can climb,” she said disdainfully. Then, clever as an organ-grinder’s monkey, the girl swung down another branch, her petticoats flouncing about her dainty boots as she did so.

Quin tried to scowl at her. “The truly professional tree climbers don’t go it alone, you know,” he remarked after a few moments had passed. “Who would send for help if you fell?”

The girl was halfway down. Her heavy, bronze-colored hair was sliding from its braid on one side, and he could see that she’d rent a seam under the arm of her coat. “I shan’t fall,” she said in her faintly accented English. “I never do. Besides, I’m not alone.”

“Oh?” he asked. “Who is with you?”

She clutched tight to a branch and grinned down at him over her shoulder. “You are, signore,” she said.

Quin could not help but grin back at her. “Ah, but I am a most unreliable sort of chap,” he answered. “Never around when I’m needed. Ask anyone who knows me.”

The girl kept winding her way down, carefully placing her hands and feet. Somehow, he knew better than to offer his help. “Actually, I came with my friends,” she said, as she caught the last branch. “Lottie and Christopher. Do you know them?”

Her feet touched the ground, light as a thistle blossom. Quin swept off his hat, for it somehow seemed the right thing to do. “I do indeed,” he said. “But I certainly don’t see them here, and I am fairly sure I would recognize them. I am their uncle, you see.”

Her face brightened a little at that. “Are you?” she asked, looking up at him. “Your name is Lord Wynwood, is it not? Do you know the little brook just at the bottom of this hill?”

“Yes, yes, and—er, yes. I do know the little brook.”

She gestured toward the coombe below. “Well, they went down there to look for salamanders.”

Quin crooked one brow. “Isn’t it a little cold for that?”

Looking mildly embarrassed, she shrugged. “I don’t know what it is, this salamander,” she confessed, as a cascade of bronze hair slithered over her shoulder.

Quin searched his mind. He had briefly studied Italian, back when he had harbored the foolish notion of rushing off to the Continent and dragging Viviana back to England. “A salamander is a creature,” he said. “And rather like un…un alamaro.”

“A frog?” she said sharply.

He shook his head. “No, not a frog,” he responded, trying to dredge up the right word. “I meant to say una lucertola. I think.”

The girl was trying not to laugh. “A lizard, do you mean?”

He gave up, and nodded. “Yes, like a lizard.”

Her face broke into a smile that was like a ray of sunshine. “You are very kind to try to speak Italian to me.”

“Grazie,” he said. “I fear I do not know any Venetian. It is much the same, is it not?”

She laughed. “Somewhat, yes,” she said. “But at home, Mamma and I speak Italian or English.”

Lord, she was going to be a beauty, he thought. Her face looked so much like her mother’s it was breathtaking. A pity her father was dead. In a few years, it was going to require six or seven resolute parents to keep the young men at bay. At that thought, something swift and protective surged through him. Followed by a sense of grave unease.

Quin remembered himself as a young man, recalled with horror the lascivious thoughts and wicked imaginings which had utterly possessed his mind. God preserve her from that! But she was not his responsibility, was she?

Well, no. But she was a child. A child who was standing in the freezing cold in the middle of his wood. There was a certain moral obligation in that, wasn’t there? He looked up through the bare, clattering branches, and saw something—snow, or perhaps just ash—come swirling down.

“You had best go fetch the others, Cerelia,” he said. “We shall walk you home first, then I will take Chris and Lottie back to Arlington Park.”

The girl stuck out her lip. “I wanted to climb another tree.”

“This isn’t negotiable,” he said firmly. “I think we might be in for a little snow.”

The child’s face lit up. “Snow—?”

Just then, a crashing arose in the tangle of rhododendron which meandered up from the stream’s edge. The two wanderers burst from the greenery. “Uncle Quin! Uncle Quin!” Lottie rushed up the hill to greet him. “Have you come to find us? We are not lost, you know.”

“Are you not?” Quin caught her around the waist, lifted her off her feet, and spun her round on the footpath. “Perhaps I am lost, Lottie. Perhaps you have found me. Did you ever think of that?”

“Oh, poo!” said Lottie. “Mamma says you are a vagabond. They are never lost.”

She was laughing when he set her back down on her feet again, and she clung to him dizzily, her arms wrapped round his neck. It was then that he noticed the expression on Cerelia’s face. She looked…not envious, but almost painfully alone. She literally stood apart from them, on the opposite side of the footpath, which might as well have been a gaping chasm.

Lottie and Chris, however, did not notice their little friend. “Look, Uncle Quin,” said Chris, ramming his hand deep in his coat pocket. “We’ve got conkers! Great, hard ones!”

“Oh ho!” Never one to be outdone on such an important point as the size of his conker, Quin dug into his own pocket, and produced the one Cerelia had bounced off his hat.

“Lud!” said Lottie.

Quin smiled. “Now this, Christopher, is a conker,” he said. “Go ahead and string yours up if you’ve a mind to take a thrashing. But it shan’t stand a chance against this behemoth.”

“Crikes!” said the boy. “That’s the biggest ever! Where’d you find it, Uncle Quin?”

Quin restored the nut to his pocket. “Actually, it belongs to Cerelia,” he said, turning to wink at her. “I am just keeping it for her.”

“See, Lottie!” The little boy tossed a disdainful glance at his sister. “I told you there wouldn’t be any salamanders down there. Perhaps I could have found that one.”

“They’re just big acorns,” said Cerelia. “I cannot see what all the fuss is about.”

“Actually, Cerelia, they are chestnuts,” said Quin. “But not the kind you eat. Now, it is going to be dark soon. Let’s be off, shall we? And on the way, we shall tell you all about conkers, and how we English like to string them up, and swing them at one another, usually until someone’s nose gets bloodied.”


Cerelia cut a strange glance up at him. “That sounds silly.”

“It is silly,” said Quin. “Frightfully silly—especially when grown men engage in it.”

They set off for home with the girls on either side of him. Lottie, of course, slipped her gloved hand into Quin’s. On impulse, he caught Cerelia’s hand in the other. Chris darted on ahead, pausing now and again to shuffle through the dead leaves beneath the chestnut trees.

Cerelia’s good humor was restored. She and Lottie chattered gaily as they wound their way back out of the wood and in the direction of Hill Court. But as the evening’s chill deepened, the girls’ teeth began to chatter. Quin opened his greatcoat, tucked them close to his sides, and folded it around them as best he could. Laughing, they waddled along together, looking, he imagined, rather like a drawing he had once seen of a great American grizzly bear.

It felt strangely pleasant to be walking with his arms and his coat wrapped about two small children. It also felt as though he’d seen more of his nieces and nephew these last few days than he had in the whole of their lives. And to his surprise, he had rather enjoyed it. They seemed genuinely fond of him, especially Alice’s youngest, who had developed something of an obsession with his cravat pin.

Each time he visited them in the nursery, Diana would clamber onto his lap and pluck at it most determinedly. He had finally decided simply to remove it and give it to the child, but Alice had caught him and soundly scolded him. Four-year-olds, apparently, were prone to swallowing small, pretty objects.

Such a thing would never have occurred to him. Indeed, he knew nothing at all of children. Oh, he had always assumed he would have two or three; it was expected. It was necessary, especially for his mother’s sake. But he had always imagined they would be like small adults, and that he would see little of them. They would be raised by nurses and governesses, he had supposed.

But why had he supposed it? He and Alice had not been reared in such a way. Their parents had been an ever-present force in their lives. Family outings had been frequent affairs. Their father, for all his reserve, had seen them two or three times a day. Their mother doted on them; never had she failed to kiss them good night and see them tucked safely into bed.

The truth was, he simply felt no connection to these preordained children he was meant to have. He had not actually tried to imagine what it would be like to be a father since—well, since Viviana Alessandri. It was almost an embarrassment to recall it now, how he would sometimes thrust himself so deep inside her, reveling in the rush of his seed toward her womb, and hope.

In those rash, heedless moments, he had been unable to stop the vision of what it would be like to see her soft, smooth belly grow round with his child. He had wanted it so very desperately, even as he had realized the hell they both would pay should it ever actually happen. Good God, his father would have disowned him. His mother would have swooned and taken to her bed for a week.

But neither of those reactions seemed so horrific now. He was almost ten years older. He had lived through some dark days. To worry about his parents having fits and swoons seemed almost laughable now.

They were not so laughable when one was but twenty years old, and unsure of one’s place in the world. And yet, those had been the only children Quin had ever pictured in his mind. The ones he had wanted to give Viviana Alessandri. He was damned lucky he hadn’t got his wish, too.

Then, he had assumed Viviana understood conception—or rather, how a woman avoided it. She had seemed so sophisticated, so urbane. But he now realized that, in all likelihood, she had done nothing. Certainly she had taken no steps which he, now older and wiser, would have recognized as contraception.

He looked down again at Cerelia, who looked so very much like her mother it suddenly made his heart ache. Gianpiero Bergonzi had got his wish, had he not? He had made three children with the wife he had so boldly married. Quin wondered if all three were this beautiful. If they looked anything like their mother, then the answer was a resounding yes.

Unexpectedly, Cerelia tugged on his hand. “I know the way from here, Lord Wynwood,” she said softly. “You may let me go now.”

They were nearing the end of the wood, and through the thinning trees, he could see the soft lights of his uncle’s stables coming into view. He felt Cerelia’s fingers loosen about his own. And suddenly, Quin became aware of an awful, choking knot in his throat. His hand tightened on the child’s almost involuntarily.

He did not want to let her go, this beautiful piece of the woman he had once loved. He wanted to gaze upon her face and think upon the past. The awful, miserable past he had once sworn to forget. But something seemed to have changed.

Oh, he knew what had changed. Everything. His whole life. The past had returned to torment him, and his future seemed blighted and barren again.

Good God, Viviana Alessandri! After all these years. And this time, he was not at all sure he could survive it. This time, there was no easy way to deaden the pain of an old wound sliced open to bleed anew. And though he would never have admitted it to anyone, he was tired, so bloody weary of living a life devoid of hope and joy. A life where one could imagine, and even wish for, a future, and for the love and the family which came with it.

Yes, he was beginning to fear that he knew what had changed—or perhaps not changed was the more correct phrase.

“Lord Wynwood?” said the small voice again.

He gave her hand one last squeeze and let her go.

Cerelia slithered her way out of the folds of his coat. Cold air breezed in and wrapped around his heart. They watched her go in the swiftly approaching dusk, the hem of her heavy wool skirt brushing across the lawn as she dashed up the hill toward his uncle’s house.

She had almost reached the back terrace when he saw an indistinct figure come sweeping round from the front of the house. A woman in a bottle green gown and cloaked in black, whose face he could not see. But he did not need to see it, for the proud set of her shoulders and the angle of her chin gave her away.

At the corner of the house, mother and daughter met. He saw Viviana embrace Cerelia ardently, then urge her up the terrace steps. Neither spared a glance toward the three who waited at the foot of the hill.

He waited until they had reached the back door. A shaft of glowing gold lamplight spilt out across the terrace as they opened it. Then they slipped inside, their happy laughter carrying down the hill on the cold winter’s wind. The door closed, and the shaft of golden lamplight vanished. Quin felt, inexplicably, as if he had just been shut out. Viviana and the children were safe and snug together now. They were happy. They were a family, the four of them. And he was not a part of it. A sinking sense of emptiness weighed him down.

He had the strangest feeling that he had just made a terrible, irreparable mistake. But how could that be? Somehow, he turned to Chris and Lottie and forced himself to smile. “One down,” he said. “And two to go.”