Rosetta watched Bridie as the Count droned on. Her friend’s face was full of pride and admiration and, Rosetta believed, fear: fear that he was too good for her; fear that he might run off with someone else; fear that she didn’t have him quite where she wanted him; and fear, perhaps, that she would fall short and disappoint him. Rosetta hated this new fear that had crept into Bridie’s heart. In Rosetta’s opinion Cesare was arrogant, selfish and, from what she had heard from rumors circulating the town, an incorrigible womanizer. Apparently he had seduced Niamh O’Donovan, according to Rosetta’s maid, who was a delightful gossip, and plenty of other girls besides. She didn’t imagine Bridie had heard these rumors; who would tell her? But she suspected Bridie knew; after all, she wasn’t a fool. And what did it matter anyway? Bridie would forgive him. In her eyes Cesare was perfect and beyond criticism. Rosetta wondered how much control Bridie had of her finances and wished Beaumont Williams, Bridie’s attorney in New York, were around to advise her. From the odd comment Bridie had made it appeared that Cesare was going through her fortune at a reckless speed. Rosetta wondered whether he had ever had any money of his own before he had married money. She very much doubted it. She was still bothered by the fact that he didn’t speak good Italian. For a man who claimed to have spent his childhood in Italy, his command of the language was surprisingly poor. She wished she had the tools to do a little detective work, but she wouldn’t know where to begin. She needed someone with contacts, international contacts, to help her. She had a horrible feeling Bridie had been ill-advised in marrying this handsome adventurer. Spending all her money was one thing; robbing her of her self-respect was quite another.
Just as dinner was announced, Grace spotted Michael. He was talking to a group of men who were listening to him attentively, as if every word he said was important. Her heart gave a leap. It had been almost twenty years since those exciting days during the Troubles when they had been thrown together in their pursuit of freedom for Ireland, but he was more handsome now than he had ever been. His black curly hair was still wild, his dark eyes full of mystery and danger, his powerful presence radiating around him as if his very soul was too bright for his body. She felt the familiar aching in her loins as the memory of his touch caused a ripple to career over her skin. With the confidence of a woman whose beauty had ensured that she was welcomed wherever she presented herself, Grace glided over the grass to the small group. “Might the promise of a banquet be the only thing to tempt you from your intriguing,” she said with a coquettish smile so delightful the men diverted their attention at once from Michael’s deliverance and gazed on her with admiration. “Mr. Doyle, would you be kind and escort me into dinner?” Michael, not at all astonished by Grace’s boldness but surprised by her relentless pursuit of him, had no choice but to hold out his arm.
“I have a bad feeling about the Count,” said Grace as they ambled slowly toward the castle.
“What kind of bad feeling?” Michael asked.
“I sense a fake,” she said.
“Not just an adulterer then,” Michael replied, and Grace’s jaw stiffened, for she was well aware that Michael’s newfound faith had given him an abhorrence of adultery—theirs in particular.
“Oh, I’m sure he’s that too.”
“Rumor has it.”
“Indeed it does, and there is no smoke without fire.”
“You have been kind to Bridie,” he said, and there was a tenderness in his voice that she hadn’t heard in a long time.
“I’m fond of her, as you know, Michael. God has dealt her a tough hand of cards. I’m not sure the castle has made her as happy as she thought it would. It might have been more prudent to have stayed in America. But it is what it is, and I feel responsible. I helped her when she was pregnant and alone and I set her up in America. Now that she is here I want to make sure that she has friends. She needs all the friends she can get with that reprobate husband.”
Michael hesitated at the French doors of the castle. “Grace,” he said in a low voice, holding her back a moment. “I don’t like him either. I don’t like the way he treats Bridie, and I don’t like the rumors. Ballinakelly is a small town, and he is indiscreet. If you choose to dig deeper I will be grateful for any information you can glean.” And once again Michael’s eyes shone with menace.
Grace’s heart gave another leap, for he looked like the old Michael. The one she had loved before he had sobered up at Mount Melleray and returned as pious as a priest. Once again they were united in a plot, and she felt dizzy with happiness. “You can rely on me, Michael,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said gravely. “You’re the one person I always could.”
THE DINNER WAS a sumptuous feast, more extravagant than any Deverill banquet had ever been before it. The noise of chatter was loud, the peals of laughter shrill and the sheer merriment of it all was strangely disconcerting to Bridie, who, as the evening progressed, was feeling more and more choked with misery. She did not know how to talk to these people, these strangers invited by Grace, and their inquisitive questions sounded patronizing and prying to Bridie’s distrustful ear.
As soon as she could, she fled the castle. She wanted to hide. She wanted to disappear into the darkness, where the watchful eyes of her guests could not find her. She wanted to sob where their vigilant ears could not hear her and take cover so that their critical tongues could not find fault in her to share. She wanted to scrabble about in the woods for the girl she had once been, now lost beneath her finery.
She lifted her skirts above her ankles and ran between the rhododendron bushes toward the gate at the end of the drive. Her shoes clattered on the gravel, and the electric lights that shone through the foliage caught the smooth facets on her diamonds so that they sparkled like shooting stars. The anticipation of finding her freedom, even for a moment, gave vent to a loud moan that escaped her throat. She let it out, and the feeling was such a relief that she let out another, until she began to weep with abandon.
Suddenly, she stopped running. She caught her breath and stifled her sobbing. She saw, to her horror, the faces of people—dozens of people—staring at her through the bars of the gates while the guards in livery whom Cesare had hired in Dublin for the occasion made sure they remained outside the castle walls. They were gazing at her in the same way that she had gazed at the first-class passengers from the third-class deck of the boat that had carried her to America. She froze like a trapped animal with nowhere to run and stared at them staring at her in bewilderment. Then she blinked and the faces shifted into focus and she recognized them. She recognized the people she had grown up with in Ballinakelly when she, like them, had been poor and shoeless and hungry. But now here she was in her jewels and silks on the other side of the gate while they looked in, eager to watch the spectacle that was this grand night of extravagances beyond their most fanciful longings.
Bridie wanted to throw open the gates and let them in, but she knew she couldn’t. She thought of her mother then and her nanna, and her father’s face seemed to appear there, among the crowd of locals, and gaze at her with a sad and disappointed air.
She spun around and hurried back to the castle and the life Fate had chosen for her, leaving the townspeople wondering whether they had really seen the Countess or whether she had been a Deverill ghost. After all, didn’t they say the castle was haunted?
ROSETTA DIDN’T IMAGINE that more sumptuous balls were even given by royalty. This was an extravaganza of extraordinary proportions, everyone said so. After dinner there was dancing in the ballroom and at midnight the heavens were lit up with the most breathtaking display of fireworks. She heard it muttered that the last time the skies above Ballinakelly had glowed so brightly was the terrible night the castle was burned to the ground.
Rosetta had watched Bridie drink glass after glass of champagne. It was her party, but she didn’t appear to be enjoying herself very much. The Count on the other hand was enjoying himself immensely. Every lady in the room wanted to dance with
him, and he was only too happy to oblige. His gleaming white smile dazzled and his green eyes seduced as he swept the adoring ladies around the ballroom with the nimbleness of a ballet dancer.
After midnight Rosetta went in search of Bridie. She hadn’t seen her during the fireworks, and she hadn’t seen her on the dance floor. She had found Michael and asked him, but he hadn’t seen her, nor had her husband, Sean. Eventually Rosetta set off up the stairs toward Bridie’s little sitting room to see if she was hiding out in there. However, a thudding noise alerted her to something going on at the end of a very dark corridor, so she changed direction and headed off toward it. The sound of music from the band in the ballroom became muffled and distant, the voices of guests as soft as the murmur of bees far away. Rosetta could feel her heart beating wildly as an uneasiness crept over her, causing her skin to prickle. She dared not turn on any lights. She sensed that what she was going to find would not appreciate being exposed to the glare of electric light.
After a while Rosetta heard the sound of puffing and grunting coming from behind one of the big oak doors. She knew that she shouldn’t look, but she couldn’t help herself. Her curiosity had now grown to such proportions as to be irrepressible. Slowly she turned the brass knob and pushed open the door. It moved on its hinges without making a sound. Gingerly she peered around it. There, making love on the bed, was the Count. The woman who was underneath with her ankles wrapped around his waist was not someone Rosetta recognized. Unaware of her presence they continued to take pleasure in what seemed to be the Count’s most favorite pastime. Rosetta withdrew as quietly as she had entered and closed the door softly behind her. She was now more determined than ever to expose this man for what he was, an adventurer and a cad without whom Bridie would be much better off.
At last Rosetta found Bridie where she had imagined she would be, in her little sitting room. She was slumped in the corner of the sofa in her beautiful green dress, an empty champagne flute in her hand. Rosetta could see that she had been crying. “Bridie, what are you doing in here?” she asked, and for a sudden moment she feared Bridie knew about her husband. But she did not.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here, Rosetta. I’m neither fish, fowl nor red herring. I don’t know why I ever came back. I should have stayed in New York. At least I had a life there. I had friends. I didn’t have to ask a friend to rent a crowd for me, and she’s not my friend anyway. Lady Rowan-Hampton will never be my friend.”
Rosetta sat on the sofa beside her. “What has brought this on?” she asked.
“Who do I think I am, living in a grand castle? I was not raised for grand castles, Rosetta, unless to be working in one. As Mam says, ‘What is bred in the bone comes out in the marrow.’ Who am I to think that money can buy breeding?” A bitter chuckle rattled in her throat. “No, it’s Grace’s party, not mine. She swept in and charmed them all, and no one remembers that I’m the Countess and it’s my castle. Cesare should have married someone like Grace. Not someone like me, who doesn’t know how to play the part.”
“You played the part beautifully tonight,” Rosetta insisted, putting a hand on her arm. “No one would think you were anything other than a grand lady in a grand castle, throwing a grand ball.”
Bridie looked at her and smiled sadly. “Do you really think so?”
“I do. The only people who might have reservations about you owning this place are the Deverills.”
“The Deverills.” Bridie shook her head. “I loved them once. Kitty was like a sister to me. Celia was always happy, all the time. Her life was charmed, but then look what happened. Happiness is an elusive thing, Rosetta. It’s like a cloud. You think you have it, and then your hand goes straight through it. It’s an illusion, happiness.” She sighed miserably.
“Come back to the party, Bridie.” Rosetta stood up. “It is your party, and you are the hostess. If you’re going to make a life for yourself in Ballinakelly then you have to make friends with the people downstairs.”
Bridie pushed herself up with a groan. “No, Rosetta. If I want to make a life for my husband in Ballinakelly, I have to make friends with the people downstairs. I have you and I have my family and I have Jack and Emer O’Leary. I don’t need more friends.”
The ball was still going strong although the constant flow of champagne and dancing had made most of the guests look a lot less polished than they had looked when they arrived. Gowns were creased, bow ties loosened, makeup smudged and hair in need of a good comb. Rosetta left Bridie with her brother Sean and went to powder her face in the dressing room. As she was coming out she bumped into Grace.
“Ah, Rosetta, do you know where Bridie is?” she asked. “I need to tell her what a success tonight has been. Everyone has told me how beautiful and charming she is and how utterly splendid the castle is.”
“She could do with a compliment,” said Rosetta.
Grace seized upon the suggestion that something was not right. “Why? Is she unhappy?”
“Just a little insecure,” Rosetta replied, then she couldn’t help but vent a little of her fury about the Count. “Cesare has a nasty way of sapping her confidence.”
“Really,” said Grace. She took Rosetta by the arm and led her into a corner. “I hear the rumors like everyone else, and it vexes me greatly.”
“The rumors are all true,” said Rosetta in a low voice. “He’s not only bedding the girls in town but he’s bedding one right now. I saw him with my own eyes.”
“What? Here? Tonight?”
“Quite so, Lady Rowan-Hampton. You wouldn’t believe it, but it’s true.”
“How insulting to his wife. Something must be done about it.” Grace conveniently overlooked the fact that she had once bedded Bertie Deverill right here in this castle at the Deverill Summer Ball, while his wife danced in the ballroom downstairs.
Rosetta looked at Lady Rowan-Hampton, and she realized that here was the very person she needed to help her expose the Count. Rosetta had no idea, however, how eager Grace was to dig up dirt on the Count, or why.
“I don’t believe he has anything to do with Italy, either,” Rosetta continued hurriedly. “I have tried to speak Italian to him on many occasions, and the little he has said reveals how little he knows.”
Grace narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Are you telling me, Rosetta, that the Count is a fraud?”
“I believe he is.”
“Then where might he be from?”
“I don’t know, and I have no idea how to find out.”
“I can find out,” said Grace firmly, her excitement rising at the thought of a covert mission.
“There is one person I know who will be able to help you,” Rosetta said. “One man who is very fond of Bridie and looked after her while she was in New York.”
“And who might he be?” Grace asked.
“Beaumont Williams, her attorney,” Rosetta replied. “There is nothing he doesn’t know about Bridie and nothing he won’t do to protect her.”
Grace put a hand on Rosetta’s. “We are in this together because we love Bridie,” she said. “There’s nothing I won’t do to protect her either.”
Rosetta felt an enormous sense of relief. Here was a woman who had the means to expose the Count, and she was prepared to help. In fact, she looked very determined indeed. Rosetta watched her walk off with the poise and confidence of a lady who has known only the grandest drawing rooms and the grandest people and she thought that if anyone was born to grand castles and grand titles, it was her.
Grace entered the ballroom and swept her eyes over the revellers with purpose. Then her sharp, determined gaze rested on Michael.
Chapter 15
London
How your mother has the audacity to bring her paramour to a family funeral is beyond me!” said Boysie Bancroft to Harry Deverill, whose mother, Maud, had just walked into the church in Kensington on the arm of Arthur Arlington.
“I can only deduce that
she never much liked her husband’s cousin,” Harry replied. “I always found Augusta strident, overbearing and outspoken to the point of rudeness, but we were all marvelously entertained making fun of her behind her back. Mama clearly found her less amusing. I’m not sure what Papa is going to make of it. I daresay he won’t be very happy.”
Boysie’s beautiful mouth, almost too beautiful for a man, curled into a small smile. “Goodie, funerals can be so dreary. I’m now counting on your parents to make a scene.”
Harry chuckled. “Not very likely. They’ll probably ignore each other.”
“No they won’t,” said Boysie with certainty. “Maud wouldn’t have brought her lover if she didn’t want some sort of reaction from Bertie.”
“My mother’s a mystery. I’ve never really known what she’s thinking.”
“Unlike her son,” said Boysie. “I’ve always known exactly what you’re thinking.”
Boysie was tall and elegant with sea-green eyes, sugar-brown hair and a boyishly handsome face. He had a languid, raffish air that betrayed long nights drinking cognac and smoking cigarettes, and a reputation for having one of the finest minds in London. Not only was he clever but he was a master of discretion, for he and Harry had been secret lovers for more than seventeen years. “So, what am I thinking now?” Harry demanded.
“That it’s a pity it’s up to you as an usher and a relative to show your mother and her paramour to their seats.”
Harry laughed. “Well, that wasn’t very difficult. But you’re right. One must do one’s duty.” He set off in the direction of his mother.
Maud, dressed expensively in Chanel and diamonds, was now in her late sixties, tall with a slim waist, jaw-length white hair and a face that had the remains of a once-great beauty. The angular structure of her bones, which had made that beauty striking in youth, now served her well in her later years. She looked at least a decade younger than her contemporaries. Her wintry blue eyes were arrogant as she swept them over the congregation, silently challenging anyone to criticize her decision to bring Arthur, who had been her consort now for more than ten years.
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