“I am acquainted with Halford and I knew Traisdel in the old days. Sounds like an entirely suitable match for you.”
“She sees me as Gianni, who gives lessons in conversatione Italiano. I have reason to believe that she might regret the, shall we say, familiarity in which we have engaged. She would not have been quite so free if she knew she was dealing with one of her own class.”
The duke glowered at his half-brother. “Devil take it, John, do not tell me you have compromised the young lady!”
“Of course not. I have been all that is proper. But she calls me Gianni, shares her thoughts about her sisters, went skating with me on the Thames—all sorts of intimacies in which she would never indulge with a gentleman of rank. The dictates of society prevent most couples from experiencing the very things that brought us close in heart and mind.”
The duke settled back into a more complacent posture. “Ah, you are indeed a rebel at heart, John. You would overhaul the entire marriage mart, I take it?”
“Indeed I would.”
“After our rubdowns, I shall offer you a cognac and wish you happy. What disappointments you experience in regard to Italy should be well overridden by your success in your personal life.”
Gianni smiled. “That is so. Assuming the lady does not have me ejected bodily from her presence when I tell her the truth!”
While Caro and Tonio sang love duets on the other side of the music room in Renwick House, Gianni read a love poem to Susan. She listened to his sweet voice through a haze of pain.
Today was their last afternoon together.
Tomorrow was St. Valentine’s Day, the date of the Renwick’s Ball. She and Lady Caroline would sing, the culmination of their weeks of practice under the direction of Maestro Antonio. If Lady Renwick had her way, Caro would be quite occupied in the next few days accepting flowers and notes, calls and invitations from numerous gentlemen for carriage rides in the park. Lady Renwick would not expect her daughter to continue with music lessons once her singing brought her to the attention of the sort of young men she wished to have as candidates to be her daughter’s husband.
“Capisce? Do you understand?” Gianni spoke softly.
“I am sorry, Gianni. I did not catch a word. I was listening, but my head is empty today.”
“The poet would be disappointed. He intended the music of the voice to be more appealing. You are supposed to fall into the arms of the lover who recites these words to you.”
Susan’s eyes widened in surprise. He moved in closer to her and put an arm around her shoulder.
“Carissima mia, sono sopraffare. I am overcome, my darling.”
“Is that part of the poem?”
“No, Susanna. I must confess to you now.”
“Confess?” She gave a fearful shiver.
He glanced over to ensure Antonio and Caro were paying attention only to one another. “I must tell you the whole story now, my story. Everything I have told you about my family is true. My mother was born in Tuscany and my father was English. He was much older than she and already had a large family here in England. After his first wife died, he went to Firenze and lived there for a while. Eventually, he met my mother and married her. She died when I was a mere child.”
“So you have said.” Susan could not see what point he was trying to make. But she was content to listen to him.
“All of that is true, but what I did not tell you is that my father was the Duke of Bainbridge. My half-brother Richard is the duke now and it is to his house I took you to see the pictures.”
She drew away from him and looked up in shock. “What? Does he not acknowledge you? Why do you live like a poor exile?”
“Richard, his grace, is a close friend and adviser of government ministers. Of course he acknowledges me. To him, I am Lord John Stansberry. I see him nearly every week and I will soon move back into Bainbridge House, where I have lived on and off all my life.”
“Lord John Stansberry? You?” Susan’s heart pounded as though she had been running for hours. She snapped her mouth shut, aware she had been gaping in open-jawed incredulity.
“Yes, cara mia. That is my name. But my name is also Gianni DiFerrante, the name of my mother’s family. You see, this part is truly a secret. And you must never tell a soul.”
“I will not.”
His voice was barely more than a whisper. “Not even Antonio knows my story. I have been living in the Italian exile community trying to gather information for His Majesty’s Government on the activities of various groups in Italia, groups engaged in resistance to local governments installed by Napoleon, groups favoring the unity of all Italian regions, groups in outright rebellion.”
“You live a double life?”
“Not exactly. I live among the Italian community. I befriend recent arrivals and listen to their conversations. I hear their news from home. I ask a few questions. I report to my brother or to a contact in the Foreign Office. Sometimes I write broadsheets to be distributed in Italy to encourage the resistance.”
“Gianni, that means you are truly fighting for England, just as much as if you were marching with Lord Wellington.”
“Ah, carissima mia, if only it were so. Richard is probably the only man in England who would agree with you. I am not sure my information really did much good.”
“Gianni, I think you are a hero.” She leaned toward him, slipped her arms around his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. “I knew there was more to you than the story you told.”
“And what did you think the ‘more’ was?”
She nuzzled his cheek and kissed his earlobe. “Oh, you will laugh at me. I worried so. At first I thought you might be married. You were always whispering to people. At the opera. On the ice. Then I was afraid you were arranging things.”
“Aha,” Gianni laughed. “You thought I was a procurer, finding young ladies for the pleasure of gentlemen? For shame, cara mia, to think I would stoop so low. And what would a fine young lady like you know of such things anyway?”
“That is the problem. I know nothing of such things. So my imagination ran away with me.”
As one, they looked across the room and saw Caro and Tonio leaning over a stack of music, with eyes only for each other.
Gianni tipped up her chin and brushed his lips across hers. “Come with me to Italia, Susanna mia, come with me to Tuscany, to Siena and Firenze. I will show you everything, and together we will share the light, the wines, the beauties of the countryside. Every day we will visit quaint villages and magnificent palazzos, ancient churches, and superb gardens. We will share everything. I will braid flowers in your hair and you will feed me grapes.”
“Gianni, are you reading poetry or just talking to me?”
He laughed and drew her into his arms more tightly. “Ah, my Susanna, I speak to you from my heart, right now. Say you will come with me.”
“I want to come with you. I want to very much.”
Chapter Six
Susan quietly crept down to the breakfast room early on the morning of St. Valentine’s Day and poured herself a cup of chocolate. No one else would be up yet. Tonight’s ball would last until the wee hours of tomorrow morning. Her sisters, Mamma, Papa, and the dowager would be in bed for hours. She did not plan to stay late tonight. She would slip away after she and Caro sang, before the dancing got underway.
Susan would be much happier at home, dreaming of she and Gianni on their travels through Italy. If any of the gentlemen at the ball enjoyed her duets, let them pay their respects to Caro. Susan could not imagine flirting with anyone who attended tonight. After all, she had Gianni. Or should she be calling him Lord John now? Last night her head had been too crowded with dreams of the two of them together in Siena to have room to think of his double life. She dropped off to sleep before she absorbed the implications of the truth about his subterfuge.
“Good morning, Susan.” Theodosia took a seat at the breakfast table.
“What are you doing up so early? You should be
sleeping at least until noon.”
“I am much too nervous. Dianthe is awake too. Both of us are too excited to sleep. Do you think anyone will ask me to dance? Now that the time is near, I declare my knees are already shaking.”
Susan smiled at her younger sister. Theodosia’s delicate beauty was likely to bring her many partners, and probably a host of suitors. Even several offers of marriage. And the same would be true of Dianthe. Both were lovely, fresh and innocent, yet accomplished enough to attract the approbation of the ton’s most exacting and influential leaders.
Until Susan created a scandal by running off with the brother of the Duke of Bainbridge. The thought hit her like a Thames ice floe crashing into a bridge support. If she became the object of society’s gossip, the disgrace would ruin Theodosia’s season. And Dianthe’s. Mama would be forced to take them home, their reputations stained by their sister’s indiscretions. Though Theodosia continued to chatter, Susan felt drawn into another world, empty, alone, and flustered. If she followed her dreams, followed her heart, she would be spoiling everything for her sisters.
Dianthe burst into the room with a shriek of excitement. “Susan! You have received a St. Valentine greeting.” She waved a square of folded vellum. “Who is it from? You must open it and tell us immediately.”
Susan broke the seal. About ten lines of Italian verse filled the page under the heading A Valentine Poem.
“Who is it from?” Dianthe tried to peer over her shoulder to look for a signature.
Before her eyes misted over, Susan made out the symbol at the end of the poem. It was the simple shape of a heart. She left her sisters gaping at her in open-mouthed surprise as she raced from the room in a deluge of tears.
Peg stood back from Susan’s chair and admired her work. “You look beautiful, Miss Susan. I think a simple style is most becomin’.”
“Thank you, Peg. It is just fine.” Susan hardly peeked at the mirror. She did not care if her hair looked as if a windmill arranged it. She did not care if her dress flattered her figure or made her look like a stump. She did not care if her gloves were smudged, her earrings mismatched, or her stockings torn. For the most part, she felt numb, almost paralyzed with disappointment and grief. The St. Valentine’s Day poem from Gianni lay on her dressing table, mostly untranslated. She had been unable to concentrate all day. A few phrases she recognized, but whenever she looked at it, she started to cry. Through her tears, she had trouble deciphering its meaning. Phrases such as tyrannous love and beautiful caresses were clear, but the context eluded her understanding. The Valentine poem represented all she ardently desired but could not have. She prided herself, had even bragged to Gianni, about her unconventionality, her independence, her disdain for society’s rules. But now, though she still held these views for herself, she knew she could not act upon them. Her concern for her sisters must prevail. Fairness was more important than indulging her opinions and flaunting society’s dictates.
No matter how much she wanted to throw herself into Gianni’s plan to go to Italy, she could not bring herself to endanger her sisters’ futures. There were limits to the selfish things she would do. Perhaps it was fortunate she could not read the words in the valentine. If she never saw Gianni again, it would be for the best. She could send him a letter at the duke’s house and explain her decision. She would ask him not to contact her again. A meeting would be too painful, not to mention tempting. Later, after she finished singing, she hoped she could come directly home. In case she could not escape promptly, she stuffed the valentine into her reticule. She would find herself a secluded corner of Renwick House if it meant sitting in the pantry. There she could try again to read it. Or, as she had done all afternoon, she could simply stare at the page, trace the letters with her finger, and think of how he had written it.
“Are you ready, Susan?” Lady Serena swept into the bedchamber in a cloud of rosy scent.
“Yes, I am.”
“I hope your singing goes well for you this evening, my dear. Your sisters tell me you received a St. Valentine’s Day greeting. Will the young man who sent it be at the Renwick’s ball tonight?”
Susan shook her head. “I do not think so.”
“That is quite a pity. But there may be some gentlemen new to the season. Be sure to keep smiling.”
“Yes. I will.” At the moment, Susan felt more like indulging in a good cry.
Lady Serena rearranged a lock of Susan’s hair. “I hope this evening is successful for both you and Lady Caroline. I cannot imagine how Elaine concocted such a hare-brained scheme.”
“To have Caro sing?”
“The part about that Italian fellow she hired. Did you not know that Caro’s mother intended for her to fall in love with him?”
“With Maestro Antonio?”
“Her voice teacher, whatever his name is. Elaine told me she thought Caroline would be more attractive to other men if ‘Caro wore the radiance of love,’ I believe the phrase was.”
Susan shook her head in amazement. “I did not know…”
“I told Elaine I thought it was a miracle Caro had not run off to Gretna Green with the fellow already. Did she fall in love with him?”
Susan pressed her fingertips to her temples. She hated telling fibs, but what choice did she have? “I never noticed.”
“Then perhaps she was immune to his foreign charms. Or perhaps it was your presence that prevented the disaster. Come along, dear. It is time to depart.”
When the Halford carriage reached Renwick House that evening, Susan almost gasped at the blaze of flame that lit its façade. Inside, the rooms seemed lit by a million candles. Papa squeezed Susan’s hand and gave her a fond smile.
“Sing well, my dear.”
Susan nodded and watched her family join the crowd on the staircase. As planned, she entered the back hall and went up the servants’ stairs. Antonio whispered into Caro’s ear, whether endearments or encouragement, Susan could not hear.
“Are you ready?” Caro asked.
Susan shrugged. “Whenever you are.”
For a few minutes, time seemed suspended as they waited for the audience on the other side of the door to quiet and for Caro’s father to make the introductions. At last they walked into the music room and took their familiar places around the pianoforte. Susan’s numbness seemed to enhance rather than spoil her singing with Lady Caroline. The nervous stomach and shaking hands she expected never materialized. Instead, Susan pasted an artificial smile on her face and let the long hours of practice guide her voice. Even through her haze, she knew Caro was in fine form this evening.
To Susan, it seemed their songs were finished almost before they began. Applause broke into her dreamy state and she curtsied to the accolades of the audience. A group of people crowded around Lady Caroline, and Susan got just a quick glimpse of the glowing smile on Lady Renwick’s face. Gradually, Susan backed away from the eager chatter surrounding her. She knew her smile remained in place because her facial muscles seemed tightly frozen. No one seemed to notice as she slipped behind two men in evening finery, then stepped in between some groups of people and eventually into the foyer. Its only other occupant was Antonio, his music under his arm. “Miss Susan, you were verra’ fine tonight. I am sorry Gianni could not hear.”
“Yes. A pity. Are you staying for the dancing?”
He gave a regretful laugh. “No, I leave now.”
“But–”
“It’s-a what I expect. Finito. My job is over. From this night I get more jobs helping more young ladies. More work, more money.”
“But you and Caro are, ah, such good friends.”
“Si. L’amici. Now she finds a young man her mama likes.”
“But I know that Caro feels so much for you. She will never forget you.”
Antonio’s smile, as always, was broad and earnest. “No, she never forgets me. When she is upset, angry with her husband some-a day, she thinks of Antonio and she is happy again, capisce?”
Susan felt a
lump in her throat. “Yes, I think I understand you.”
“Arrivederci, Signorina Susan.” Antonio took her hand and raised it to his lips, bowed, and headed for the stairs. Without turning back, he went down to make his departure.
Susan wiped away a tear. So this was how Caro’s little adventure ended, with a crowd of eligible gentlemen surrounding her, but with her maestro in both music and love leaving her life forever. Susan felt as bleak as the frozen wastes of the February countryside. She would probably never see Gianni again, either. As Antonio predicted for Caro, Susan would never forget Gianni DiFerrante. Someday, when she achieved her dream of visiting Italy, she would go to Siena and haunt the Campo, yearning for him to be there too. But by then, he would probably be in love with someone else or even married. Unconsciously, she fingered the reticule holding his poem. She had better find Mama and see if she could order the carriage to take her home. The rest of this evening belonged to Caro and her swains, to Dianthe and Theodosia, to the beginning of another London Season. All she wanted for herself was to be in her own bedchamber with her Italian books, her Italian prints, and her overflowing imagination. People spilled into the foyer where she stood, several greeting her and complimenting her singing. Susan thanked them for their good wishes and headed back into the music room to find her mama and sisters.
To her total shock, she saw Gianni and almost cried out in surprise. He stood not far away in a group of young men around Caroline, resplendent in black formal evening clothes. Several people bumped against her as Susan stood rooted to the floor, unable to move, panting as if she had been running hard. She knew she was staring, but could not stop herself. His smile was as dazzling as ever. The little curl she loved to brush back had drooped over his forehead. He was so much the quintessence of all she wanted she could not look away.
As she watched, Gianni offered his arm to Caroline and they moved in her direction, accompanied by a clutch of gentlemen. She stood motionless, entirely at a loss for words. When Gianni passed her, Susan was sure he looked right through her, not seeing her at all. She felt as though someone slammed her in the stomach, knocking the air from her lungs and leaving her limply struggling for breath. Susan was staring not at Gianni, but at Lord John Stansberry, and he had not so much as a flicker of an eyebrow for her.
The Valentine Poem Page 6