by Liz Carlyle
“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.”
&nbs
p; 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 afte
r 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.”