She let out a sigh and stood. She had foolishly been tracking her relationship with Nicholas to that of Sacha and Marco, reading parallels in every line of her ancestor’s diary. The first meeting, the giddy blush of awakening desire, the heady bliss of sexual satisfaction, the thrill of falling in love. Each deepening emotion had been repeated between her and Nicholas. She had been certain that finding a happy ending for them—or at least an explanation for what had gone wrong—would mean a happy ending for her.
But no longer.
The ancient legends had brought her this far, but now it was up to her to set her own course. It was time to move forward. Katya gathered up the parchment pieces and resolutely put them away in the bottom of her trunk. She felt a sudden urge to see Nicholas, to feel his strong arms around her. She wanted some physical assurance that the tragedy that had befallen Sacha and Marco would not touch them.
She left her room and proceeded downstairs, searching for Nicholas in his study. The room was empty; a hollow stillness rang through the chamber. Katya moved to his desk and ran her hand over the leather chair where he customarily sat.
“Are you looking for Nicholas, Miss Alexander?”
She glanced up to find the Comtesse standing in the doorway, one slim hand resting on the ivory-carved handle of her walking cane. She sent her a soft smile and moved away from Nicholas’s desk. “I am.”
“I’m afraid he’s already left. He thought you were resting and didn’t want to disturb you. He asked me to convey to you that he had some business to attend to in town and would see you after your performance this evening.”
“I see.” She hid her disappointment with a polite nod. “Thank you.”
“If you have a moment, may I ask how you are progressing in your search for the scroll?”
“Not very well, I’m afraid. We’re rapidly running out of suspects. Either my touch isn’t as deft as Nicholas assumed, or the person who has the scroll has hidden it someplace where we can’t possibly find it, perhaps locked away in a hotel safe, buried in a garden, or…” She paused, shrugging her shoulders. “Who knows where it could be?”
The Comtesse let out a sigh. “I suppose it was unrealistic of us to expect that the person who had stolen it might be carrying it on his person.” She moved into the room and seated herself on a small burgundy settee. “I suspect Nicholas is aware of that as well,” she said. “Perhaps he hoped that if the two of you made a flamboyant appearance here in Monaco, your presence might help to draw out the thief and force him into making a move.”
Katya nodded. “I thought it would, as well.”
“But it hasn’t worked.”
“No, it hasn’t.”
An expression of quiet pain filled the Comtesse’s gaze as she turned toward the portrait of Nicholas and Richard seated before their father. “Perhaps the person we’re seeking can’t risk making his presence known. With each day that passes, I can’t help feeling that the truth has been before us all along and we have simply refused to see it.”
“You mean Richard?”
The older woman hesitated for a long moment, then finally replied, “Yes.”
“Then you don’t believe he’s dead?”
“No, I do not.”
“You’ll think I’m foolish, but I read Nicholas’s palm,” Katya blurted out. “His brother lives, I saw it.”
A small, sad smile curved the Comtesse’s lips. “You’re no more foolish than I have been, for my opinion is based on nothing more than an old woman’s sentiment. In my heart of hearts, I can’t help but believe that I would feel it if Richard were gone.” She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “But if Richard is alive, why would he continue to let us believe that he is dead?”
“Nicholas mentioned that his brother had accrued a vast sum of gaming debts—debts that Nicholas refused to settle. Could Richard have fabricated his own death in order to escape his debts?”
“Certainly not,” the Comtesse objected immediately. “He would not have done anything so cowardly.”
Katya paced for a moment before Nicholas’s desk. “If we are correct, where does that leave us?” she asked. “If Richard was not murdered and did not commit suicide, and if he is not hiding from his debts—”
“Then why has he not shown himself?” the Comtesse finished for her with a dark sigh. “We could talk all day, yet we keep circling around the same answer, do we not? It would appear that Richard has been behind the scheme to steal the scroll all along, and was likely behind Miss Whitney’s death as well.” An expression of profound sorrow filled her eyes as her gaze returned to the portrait she had been studying earlier. “I know he had his faults, but I would not have thought him capable of something this… ugly.”
“Indeed,” Katya replied, glancing away as she brushed a piece of lint from her skirt. Although she had tried to keep her tone neutral, it was evident from the Comtesse’s expression that she had not succeeded. The older woman’s mouth tightened into a grim line as her gaze narrowed. “Obviously you do not share my shock at this appalling turn of events, Miss Alexander. I can only assume that this is because your opinion of Richard differs profoundly from my own. Am I correct in my assumption?”
Katya hesitated. “I never knew Richard. I have only heard others speak of him.”
“I take it you are referring to the baseless, demeaning gossip that pervades society here in Monaco.”
“Yes,” she admitted.
“I should like to hear those rumors.”
“I’m afraid I’ll only offend you by repeating them.”
“I expect you will,” the Comtesse replied, drawing herself up into a posture of regal assurance. “But I would appreciate an honest answer nonetheless.”
“Very well.” Although Katya had never sought out gossip regarding either Richard or Nicholas, neither had she attempted to avoid it. Given the scandal that had surrounded them, it would have been impossible. “From what I’ve heard,” she said, “behavior of this sort would not be entirely uncharacteristic of Richard Duvall. Rumor has it that he was a profligate rake, appallingly impertinent, and lacking in any sort of discipline. Apparently he was the image of his father in both temperament and appearance.”
“I see,” the Comtesse replied slowly. “How very enlightening. So that is what is said.” She rose from the settee and moved to the window, leaning heavily on her cane as she stared out over the magnificent gardens. The early evening light cast a soft shadow over her slim frame and immaculately coiffed silver hair, giving her the appearance of uncharacteristic frailty.
Katya felt a sudden pang of remorse at having spoken so brashly and immediately tried to soften her words. “I suspect those rumors are as absurd as the ones that surround Nicholas,” she said.
The Comtesse turned to her and waved an imperious hand. “Do not attempt to mollify me, Miss Alexander. It has been my experience that rumors generally have some basis in fact—however distorted they may grow once they are spread.” She lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “The objection I have is not in the content of what is being said, but in its narrowness.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Richard was a selfish rogue,” the older woman conceded, “of that I have no doubt. But he could also be charming, as charming as the devil himself. Just as my brother William was charming in his day—and kind, and loyal, and gallant, and a host of other traits you find so compelling in Nicholas.” The Comtesse gazed for a long moment at the family portrait that hung on the wall before them, lost in silent reminiscence. Finally she turned to Katya and smiled softly. “That surprises you, doesn’t it? I can see it in your face.”
“I— Yes, it does.”
Katya’s impression of Nicholas’s father—one that was reinforced by both Nicholas himself and by the dark, menacing portrait that hung in his study—was that of a harsh, cold, arrogant man who had little time or patience for either his wife or his sons.
“Has Nicholas spoken to you of the DuValenti c
urse?” the Comtesse asked.
She frowned, not quite sure how that was related to the subject at hand. “He mentioned that he believed the Stone of Destiny was cursed. Is that what you’re referring to?”
“Indirectly, yes. From the day that wretched stone was bequeathed to us, the men in this family have lost the women they loved. It is rumored that once we retrieve the stone, that tragedy will be forever lifted. Perhaps it is nothing but a bit of ancient foolishness. Or perhaps it is true, and that is the burden we must bear. I only know that my brother was deeply affected—forever changed, if you will—by that curse.”
Katya nodded somberly. “Nicholas told me his mother died when he and Richard were young.”
“She did,” the Comtesse agreed. “But I am not speaking of Marianne. I am speaking of the woman William loved.”
A heavy silence fell between them. “I see,” Katya managed at last.
“I’ve shocked you again, haven’t I?” the elderly woman said, her ebony eyes glowing. “You have a very expressive face, Miss Alexander. Far too revealing for your own good, I suspect.”
The Comtesse returned to the settee and settled herself on the firm cushions. She took a moment to arrange her gray silk skirts, then continued evenly, “Her name was Louisa. Her father was a bricklayer… or perhaps a stone mason, I don’t recall. Nor do I know how she and my brother met. Perhaps he saw her walking in the village, or crossed her path while out riding. In any event, I did not learn of her existence until William sent me an impassioned letter telling me that he had fallen madly in love. He sent page after page, extolling Louisa’s virtues and praising her extraordinary beauty. He intended to marry the woman. I knew from the moment I received his letter that he had written to me in order to gain my help in securing our father’s blessing and approval.”
“Did you help him?”
The Comtesse’s fingers tightened around the head of her cane. “No, I did not.”
“Why?”
“The woman’s father was a common laborer. Her mother took in laundry and mending from the local townspeople. Yet their daughter should marry the Earl of Barrington? Impossible.” She paused for a moment, studying Katya intently. “How sour and disapproving you look, Miss Alexander.”
“If your brother loved her the way you say he did—”
“Do you truly believe it’s that simple?”
“Yes, I do.”
A look of profound sadness was etched upon the older woman’s face. “If only that were true. Rarely are one’s passions so completely pure—and one’s life so free of duty and obligation to others that one can do whatever one pleases.”
“I don’t understand.”
“From the moment William was born, it was ingrained in him that his foremost obligation was to his title and his lands. To that end, he was destined to marry another member of the nobility. Years earlier our parents had made arrangements with Marianne’s family to arrange my brother’s suit. Although they were not yet formally pledged, in the eyes of society at large their courtship and marriage was a fait accompli. The course my brother’s life would take had long ago been charted by others. To throw it all away for the sake of some bricklayer’s daughter was an affront not only to our family, but to our status and position in society as well.”
“Is that how you replied to his letter?”
“Yes. That is exactly how I replied. Perhaps I was even harsher.”
The Comtesse fell silent for a long moment, gazing inward as though reviewing painful, timeworn memories. At last she continued, “In my defense, I assumed my brother’s fixation with the woman was nothing but a temporary infatuation. Or perhaps a way of putting off the burden of marriage. In short, I thought it would pass.”
“Did it?” Katya asked.
“No. It did not.” She paused again, then let out a heavy sigh. “I was William’s last vestige of hope. Without my support, he knew he stood no chance in going against our parents’ wishes. Had he done so, he likely would have lost his title, his lands, his financial support, everything he had. Then what could he have offered his bricklayer’s daughter?”
“Himself.”
“Indeed. In my brother’s case, I believe that would have been enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“I saw them walking together once—William and Louisa—shortly before he married Marianne. They were arguing fiercely, presumably about my brother’s upcoming nuptials. What struck me most at the time was my brother’s expression as he looked at her. I had always heard that love could transform a man. I knew in that instant that it was true. His face was an image of both agony and adoration, as though he were hanging onto her every word even in their bitterest moment, memorizing the way she moved, the way she spoke, the color of her hair, and the shape of her eyes.” The Comtesse’s gaze locked meaningfully on Katya’s. “The men in this family love very deeply, or not at all.”
Ignoring what appeared to be a blatant reference to her relationship with Nicholas, Katya asked, “What happened between the two?”
“My brother married Marianne, as was his duty. Louisa married almost immediately as well; a nobleman, I believe, but a man with no wealth of which to speak. I thought it would end there, but I was wrong.”
Katya frowned. “What do you mean?”
The Comtesse lifted her shoulders in a small, defeated shrug. “Marianne was the right woman for William only in regard to class and breeding. Although their marriage was civil, that indefinable spark that is so essential between two people was missing from the start. Marianne was kind and gentle, a doting mother to Nicholas and Richard, and a gracious hostess to their guests. But she was far too docile to suit my brother. Although we never spoke of it, I suspect she was unhappy in the marriage as well. Shortly after Richard was born she moved out of the bedchamber she had shared with my brother and into her own suite of rooms..”
Katya nodded thoughtfully. “And what of Louisa? Did your brother ever see her again?”
“Yes. On many occasions. But do not misinterpret my words, Miss Alexander. My brother never broke the sanctity of his marriage vows. Louisa lived only a few days’ ride away. Months would pass, then his longing to see her would grow so great that he could not resist the temptation of riding to her home just for a glimpse of her walking the grounds, running some small errand, or riding through the woods.”
“But he never spoke to her?”
A look of deep sorrow crossed the Comtesse’s normally reserved features. “After their break, she returned all his letters unopened and refused to see him when he called.” She paused, then finished softly, “I understand she died suddenly one winter of pneumonia. William didn’t learn of her death until weeks later. I believe a large part of him died with her.”
Katya turned her gaze to the portrait of Nicholas’s father, studying him in an altogether new light. “How very sad,” she remarked, then she returned her gaze to the Comtesse. “Do Nicholas or Richard know any of this?”
“No. My brother swore me to secrecy and I have honored his request—until now.”
“Why now? Why did you tell me?”
The Comtesse planted her cane firmly on the rug and rose to her feet, moving to stand before the portrait of her brother. She studied the painting for a moment in contemplative silence then turned and replied, “Because I do not want William remembered like this. Harsh, cold, arrogant.” She paused, then shook her head. “I am not trying to excuse my brother’s behavior. I am only attempting to offer an explanation for what made him the man he became. I believe the loss of Louisa cost him more dearly than any of us could have suspected. William grew more and more bitter as the days went by, more and more withdrawn. When Nicholas and Richard were young, I watched them struggle so hard to gain their father’s approval, desperate for some small sign of affection. But there was nothing there. Eventually they simply stopped trying. I can’t help but wonder what might have happened had they been aware that their father’s anger and withdrawal had nothing to d
o with them. Would it have hurt or helped had they known the truth?”
“I’ve found that withholding the truth rarely leads to a good end.”
From across the room, the Comtesse’s dark eyes glowed with satisfied victory. “Exactly,” she said. “Our lives are the sum of the choices we make. It has been my experience that the longer a secret is kept, the more damage it does once it is revealed.”
She knows. She knows who I am. The thought jolted through Katya’s mind with a startling awareness that left her temporarily speechless. But surely that was impossible. Surely it was nothing but her own feelings of guilt that were making her read into the Comtesse’s words something that was not there.
Carefully considering her response, she asked, “When do you plan to tell Nicholas about Louisa?”
“As with any other matter in life, proper timing is essential. Although the explanation of his father’s behavior may mean little to him at this point, he deserves to hear the truth. He should have heard it long ago.”
Before Katya could summon a reply, the Comtesse strode regally across the room, pausing at the door to the study. “I do not know whether the DuValenti curse exists,” she said. “Perhaps the only curse that befalls the men in this family is that of loving passionately, but unwisely. I do hope for Nicholas’s sake that this is not the case.”
This time there was no mistaking the fact that she was speaking directly to her. Katya tilted her chin and met the older woman’s gaze. “I hope so, too.”
A whisper of a smile crossed the Comtesse’s stern features as she glanced around the study. “In the end,” she said, “that is all we really have.” She lifted her arm and gestured vaguely around the room. “The houses in which we live, the clothes we wear, the titles we flaunt, and the horses we ride are nothing but trinkets, silly little toys we invent to amuse ourselves while we pass our time on this earth. But to love with one’s heart and soul—and to be loved in return—surely that is a glimpse into heaven.”
On that amazingly unexpected statement, she turned abruptly and left the room, her gray silk skirts trailing in her wake.
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