by Liz Carlyle
Wynwood looked up from a diamond bracelet he had been looking at, but not really seeing. “I wish, I suppose, to see some jewelry,” he managed. “Diamonds, perhaps? Or—or emeralds?”
“You must pardon his uncertainty, Mrs. Bradford,” interjected Devellyn, winking at the jeweler’s wife. “My friend is looking for a gift for a very special sort of occasion.”
Mrs. Bradford lifted her finely arched brows. “Why, we at Bradford and Burnet make it a point to specialize in special occasions,” she said smoothly. “Do I perhaps hear wedding bells?”
“The death knell, more like, by the look of him!” said Devellyn, laughing. “ ’Tis a gristly tale, ma’am, of yet another fine and lusty lad about to be torn from his happy bachelorhood and hoisted high in the noose of holy matrimony.”
“Oh, well, a hoisting definitely calls for fine jewelry,” said Mrs. Bradford with a straight face. “Are you looking for a wedding ring, my lord?”
“No!” Lord Wynwood’s head jerked up like a startled stag’s. “I mean…not quite yet.”
“Just a betrothal gift,” added Devellyn. “There is to be an engagement party, and he wishes to make the occasion very special for her.” He paused to gently elbow his friend. “Is that not right, Quin?”
Again, Wynwood looked up. “Quite so,” he muttered. “I want something, er, you know. Special.”
Mrs. Bradford smiled brightly and inched farther down the counter along with Wynwood. “And you were thinking of diamonds?” she echoed. “But not a ring. Perhaps a bracelet? Or a brooch?”
“A necklace, I think,” said Wynwood.
“Yes, a very fine one,” added Devellyn. “She is quite a special young lady.”
Ever the cynic, Wynwood was beginning to wonder how many more times they could all manage to use the word special before this taxing business was done with. He had a deep and abiding hatred of jewelry stores. And Dev was being damned pushy about this marriage, too, almost as if daring him to go through with it. Just now, Dev was urging him farther and farther down the showcase; pushing him, it seemed, toward the inevitable permanence of the wedded state.
Oh, bloody hell. Best pick something, then. Something special, of course. But it all looked the same to him. “That one,” he said, pointing at a heavy collar of beaten gold set with a fat, multifaceted chunk of some blue-green stone. “It is not a diamond, but it looks very…grand.”
Devellyn leaned nearer. “Er—I don’t think so, Quin,” said the marquis.
Mrs. Bradford was frowning vaguely. “Is she a very young lady, my lord?” she asked. “And what color, pray, are her eyes?”
“Her eyes?” Wynwood pondered it. “Well, her eyes are…well, they are sort of…” The devil! What color were Miss Hamilton’s eyes? “They are hard to describe, but—”
“Green,” Devellyn interjected. “She is very small, and very young, and her eyes are cool mossy green with some little flecks of gold. That collar would weigh her down like chain mail and clash with her eyes most abominably. Really, Quin, I begin to wonder if your brain is fully engaged.”
Wynwood scowled. “You are forgetting, Dev, that I have not lived a life which revolved around slavishly indulging a string of expensive, overly emotional opera dancers.”
“Oh, no indeed!” agreed the marquis in a low undertone. “The class of women you usually consort with prefers a cash transaction.”
Mrs. Bradford let an indelicate little snort of laughter escape, then turned away, her face flaming.
Devellyn cleared his throat. “Well, I should like to see some earbobs, Mrs. Bradford,” he said, as if nothing untoward had occurred. “I’ve a mind, Quin, to buy Sidonie some sapphire earbobs to go with that gown she wore to Mamma’s dinner party the other week. What do you think?”
“I think you ought to buy her a pair every week,” his friend returned. “Otherwise, she might come to her senses and begin to wonder why she married you.”
Devellyn grinned, and proceeded to have Mrs. Bradford pull out three or four velvet trays, which he inspected with meticulous devotion. He was very keen indeed, Wynwood had noticed, on pleasing his own wife.
Wynwood, however, had just about lost interest in his task. Oh, he wished to please Miss Hamilton. He truly did. But the truth was, he did not know Esmée as well as a gentleman might wish to know his fiancée. He knew, of course, that she was beautiful. She was also refreshingly pragmatic and straightforward. He could not have borne a silly, simpering London miss, or one who would rather manipulate a man than tell him the truth straight out. God knew he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.
Esmée, of course, did not love him. That was just one of the many pragmatic, straightforward truths she’d told him. But love was not necessary, or even gratifying, to Quin. He and Esmée would learn to rub along tolerably well. Of that, he had no doubt. Esmée was easy to get along with, and easy on the eyes, too. He looked very much forward to having her in his bed, and even more forward to giving her his child—preferably the son which his mother so desperately needed.
His father’s death had been premature, unexpected, and most untimely. And at the age of not quite thirty, Quin had had no wish to give up his carefree bachelorhood in order to save the Hewitt dynasty from collapse.
His mother, however, was in a state of near panic now, though her good breeding and well-honed restraint hid it from all save those who knew her well. If Quin died without an heir, all would go to the dreaded Cousin Enoch, who would—and his mother did not exaggerate this—promptly toss her into the street. His mother would be left a dependent of her younger brother, Lord Chesley, or packed off to Oxfordshire to live with Quin’s sister, Alice. And his mother would sooner die than do either.
So the dynasty it must be. He and Esmée were going to retire to Buckinghamshire and have three or four children, and a reasonably happy life. To that end, Quin told himself, he was prepared to make whatever sacrifices were necessary, his fantasies of Ilsa and his flagrantly wicked ways—well, most of them—included. It was worth it to have Esmée. For if not her, then it would be some girl solely of his mother’s choosing.
“I shall take these,” he heard Devellyn say.
Mrs. Bradford named a price that would have bought one a piece of freehold real estate in Chelsea. Devellyn agreed without a second thought, then turned to Wynwood. “What of you, Quin?” he asked. “What have you chosen for your pretty Scottish lass?”
“I am undecided,” he admitted. “I think I had best talk to Lady Tatton first. She will know what her niece’s preferences are, will she not?”
“Or Alasdair?” suggested Devellyn, as Mrs. Bradford disappeared into the depths of the shop to wrap his purchase. “You ought to just ask Alasdair what he thinks Esmée would like. He is very fond of her, and knows her better than anyone. I am sure he could best advise you.”
Wynwood felt his temper flare. Sir Alasdair MacLachlan was one of their most disreputable and amusing companions. Or at least, he had been. Nowadays, however, Alasdair was behaving very oddly. Like Esmée, Alasdair was a Scot. And due to a convoluted misadventure involving a New Year’s masquerade, and far too much whisky, it appeared that Alasdair was also the father of Esmée’s infant sister, though almost no one knew it. Wynwood did know it, and he was getting damned tired of Devellyn bringing both of them up in the same breath. What the devil was the man getting at?
Just then, a clock could be heard striking somewhere in the depths of the shop.
“Devil take me!” said Devellyn. “Is that the time? I’m late for a tea in Grosvenor Square. Mamma will have my head on her best Minton platter. Mrs. Bradford? Mrs. Bradford! I must have that package, if you please.”
The jeweler’s wife bustled back into the shop and presented a sheet of foolscap requiring the marquis’s signature. After scrawling something illegible across it, Devellyn tucked the box in his pocket and patted Wynwood solicitously on the shoulder. “Buck up, old chap!” he said, before bolting out the door.
Mrs. Bradfor
d was setting down Devellyn’s purchase in a green baize ledger. “May I show you anything else, my lord?” she enquired, flicking a neutral glance up at him.
“No, I think not, thank you,” he said, slapping his hat back on his head. “I will make enquiries as to the lady’s preferences and return another time.”
Quin went back out into Burlington Arcade and strode toward the pressing rush of Piccadilly. All along the street, dead leaves were swirling, some of them so bold as to blow back into the entrance of the elegant arcade itself. The autumn day was surprisingly clear, though the air was sharp, portending winter’s swift approach.
Pausing on the pavement, he narrowed his eyes against the brightness, feeling vaguely disoriented. Lord, he’d felt a fool inside the small, overheated jeweler’s shop. Devellyn was right; he did not consort with the sort of women for whom one bought fine jewels. Not any longer. And even when he had done so, it had been rubies, and nothing less.
That was why the garnets had caught his eye. He had seen them, and for a moment, he had thought of…well, of Viviana Alessandri. He had realized his misjudgment at once. Garnets had never been good enough for her; he’d known that much without asking. The rich, bloodred ruby had always personified Viviana, and her delicate, faintly olive skin had made them shimmer with life. So he had chosen each bracelet, brooch, and necklace with the utmost care, just as Devellyn had chosen the sapphire earbobs for his beloved Sidonie.
But for all the care he had put into each, Viviana had turned around and sold it, quite heartlessly and calculatingly—to pay off her dressmaker, or settle her gaming debts, he supposed. Which was, of course, her prerogative as a kept woman. Or more accurately, as a whore. And at the end of that awful, heart-wrenching affair, he had told himself that never again would he expend his emotional energy in choosing a gift—even the slightest bauble—for any woman. For the last nine years, he had not so much as darkened the door of a jewelry store. Until today.
Quin set off down the street in the direction of Green Park, but just a few yards along, he paused opposite the Bath Hotel. A fine coach and four had drawn up near the corner, where a gentleman and a lady were engaged in an animated quarrel, hands moving almost as fast as their words. He realized at once that they were wealthy, and that they were foreign. Their fine attire made plain the first. As to the latter, members of the English ton would sooner die than be seen squabbling in the street like fishmongers.
The lady’s face he could not see, but he had the strangest notion she would be stunningly beautiful. The gentleman was elderly, stooped, and somewhat frail in appearance. He was, however, holding his own. Quin caught snatches of the language, too. Italian, or something similar. As if he were the veriest rustic, Quin stopped to gawk, though he could not have said why.
Amidst all the waving and scolding, the crux of the argument was easy to discern. The lady wished the gentleman to get into the carriage. The gentleman wished to walk. The argument continued for a few more sharp words, then the elderly gentleman moved as if to leave her.
At last, the woman threw up her hands, signaling her surrender. The elderly gentleman hesitated. In an almost maternal gesture, the lady’s fingers went to his muffler, pulling it snug around his neck and tucking the ends into his greatcoat. The gentleman bracketed her face in his hands, and kissed her once on each cheek, then set off in the direction of Mayfair.
And then she turned around.
Quin felt the breath suddenly slammed from his body.
As a boy, he’d once rushed a fence he’d no business jumping. His horse had had better sense. Quin had been tossed off to one side, where he’d landed ignominiously in the grass, his heart in his throat and gasping for air for what seemed an eternity.
This time, the boyish ignominy lasted only a moment. It was replaced by a burning, righteous fury. Yet the proud lady spared him not a glance before mounting the steps into her carriage and lifting a gloved hand to signal that they should depart.
Later, when he considered it, he realized that he had, in fact, seen very little. There had been a flash of color as the woman turned, skirts of deep burgundy, jewel-like against the black velvet of her swirling cloak. A black hat set almost flirtatiously to one side, and bountiful black ribbons tied at the chin, lifting lightly in the breeze. That unmistakably proud set of her shoulders. Those slashing black eyebrows. The way she carried herself, like the haughtiest queen, stepping up into the carriage as if she owned the world.
Her face, though—yes, there was something different about her face. She did not look the same. The nose…it was not quite right. And yet, he would have known her anywhere, even had a thousand years passed. It was Viviana Alessandri. Oh, yes. And still his breath would not come, and his heart would not leave his throat.
By the late afternoon, the mantel clock in Lord Chesley’s Belgravia town house was running ten minutes slow, the pendulum’s doleful tock-tock-tock echoing hollowly, as if it might tick its last at any moment. The atmosphere inside the parlor was oddly subdued, too. With a neatening rattle, Chesley laid aside his newspaper and studied his lone companion.
“I think I shall go upstairs, Vivie, and have a nap before dinner,” he said, rising. “One never adequately anticipates the wear and tear of travel, does one?”
Viviana looked up from her sheaf of roughly sketched notes and music, and smiled at her host. “Si, it is trying, my lord,” she agreed. “Even little Nicolo was exhausted yesterday. A remarkable thing indeed.”
Chesley strolled toward the windows which overlooked the arboreal glory of Hans Place. “What do you wish to do tonight, Vivie?” he asked musingly. “Shall we look up Digleby, and go watch the rehearsals for Fidelio? Or—wait, I know the very thing! We could take the children to Astley’s Amphitheatre!”
Her eyes lit for a moment. “But Nicolo is too small, no?”
“Nonsense,” said Chesley. “He’ll have a lovely time.”
Viviana pushed away her cold cup of tea. She had promised herself she would not go about in London any more than was absolutely necessary. One never knew who one might run into. But at Astley’s? No, surely not. Still, it had been a long trip from Venice to London.
“How kind you are, Chesley, to think of my children,” she answered, coming to her feet. “But perhaps we ought simply to have a quiet evening here? I fear Papà may have overtaxed himself with the walk from St. James. And now he is upstairs romping with Nicolo.”
“But of course, my dear,” said the earl. “I sometimes forget just how old Umberto is now.”
“Si, as does he,” Viviana returned.
Chesley closed the distance between them, and took her hands in his. “Vivie, my dear, are you perfectly all right?” he asked. “You have not seemed yourself these last two days. Was it the travel? Have I asked too much of you, in pleading for this visit to England?”
She smiled, and squeezed his hands. “I wished to come,” she said, lying unabashedly. “I wished to be away from Venice for a while.”
Chesley laughed, and lifted her hands in his, as if he might dance her round the room. “Oh, indeed! Why stay in Venice when one can winter in England!” he said. “I’m sure it must be all the rage. No, admit it, Vivie. You wished to leave your French marquis cooling his heels, did you not? Poor devil! What was this one’s name?”
“Gaspard.”
“Yes, alas, poor Gaspard!” said Chesley.
Viviana grinned. “Gaspard had become tiresome,” she admitted. “I shall not miss him.”
Chesley’s expression sobered. “But spring is far away, my dear,” he said. “And Buckinghamshire will be very cold come January. I am feeling a little guilty for having asked so much of you and Signor Alessandri.”
“You must know, Chesley, that I cannot bear to let Papà from my sight,” said Viviana. “And in truth, the notion of collaborating on this opera has rejuvenated him. I think he was not so happy in his retirement.”
Chesley looked down at the sheaf of paper strewn across the tea table. “We
ll, what do you think, my dear, of young Digleby’s libretto? Will it challenge your father?”
Viviana lifted one shoulder, an almost Gallic gesture. “Si, I believe so,” she said. “Just enough. But already, I have a concern.”
“What is it, my dear?” said the earl. “I value your opinion.”
“Well, this piece—Nel Pomeriggio— I like it,” she said slowly. “The title is suggestive. In the Afternoon. It makes one wonder what the characters will get up to, does it not?”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
Viviana was nodding slowly to herself. “And admittedly, it has elements which are delightfully witty,” she went on. “So I believe we would be better served by opening something like this in Paris, at the Opéra-Comique, perhaps? But not La Scala, which Lord Digleby seems to have set his heart on.”
“He wishes far more to open as a success,” said Chesley dryly. “Your point is well made, my dear. I will explain to him how the world of bel canto opera works. He also wishes the character of Maria to have five arias. Is it too much, do you think?”
Viviana shook her head. “Papà will make it work,” she said confidently. “But you will need a strong soprano for the role.”
Lord Chesley tweaked her on the chin as if she were a mere child. “Yes, I know that, dear Vivie,” he admitted. “You did not think you were invited simply for your looks, did you?”
Viviana felt a moment of panic. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, sitting back down again. “Oh, Chesley, I cannot do this for you. Nicolo is yet too young, and—I—I—”
“Nicolo is four years old now,” Chesley interjected. “And you have sung with only two productions in all that time.”
“Yes, but at home in Venice,” she retorted. “Not Paris, nor even Milan.”
“And nothing at all in the last two years.”
Viviana looked away, her eyes staring into the depths of the room. She had not the heart to tell Chesley the truth—or her fears. “I had to mourn my husband,” she said quietly. “I owed him that much, did I not?”