Two Little Lies

Eleven

In which Lucy speaks Her Mind.

Q uin found that dinner was a pleasant enough affair. Inexplicably, he was seated between Miss Fitch, the curate’s spinster sister, and Viviana—the contrast being Chesley’s idea of a joke, most likely. Viviana smiled politely as he helped her into her chair, but otherwise occupied herself with Henry Herndon, who sat on her other side.

Quin’s mother had been placed near the head of the table adjacent to her brother, but next to Signor Alessandri, who seemed to have thoroughly charmed her. Quin had not missed the Continental kiss the dapper old gentleman had placed on his mother’s glove upon their arrival, nor did he fail to notice how closely his mother attended to Alessandri’s conversation during dinner. It had been a long time, he suspected, since a gentleman had attempted to flatter his mother so excessively.

After dinner, Chesley opened the double doors which connected the parlor to the larger withdrawing room, then ordered the furniture pushed back and the carpets rolled up so that they might have some impromptu dancing. Lord Digleby Beresford went at once to the pianoforte and began to play a lively tune as several of the younger people took up their positions for a country dance. Viviana’s mind seemed elsewhere. Quin watched from the corner of his eye as she excused herself and headed for the stairs.

She was going up, he suspected, to put her children to bed. Alice had often remarked on Viviana’s careful attention to such details. As for Alice, her brood had departed during dinner. Quin had heard Miss Bright bring them down in the middle of the soup course, where they had proceeded to make enough racket for eight or ten children as they pulled on their coats and mittens, and said their final good-byes.

Viviana was gone no more than five minutes before sweeping back down the stairs, through the entrance hall, and into the Lord Chesley’s parlor, where the evening’s refreshments had been laid out. She wore a gown of shimmering blue silk, the color so dark it almost matched her raven hair. The gown was set well off her shoulders, and left a vast deal of her creamy, faintly olive skin to be admired. And to his chagrin, Quin found his eye almost uncontrollably drawn—but to her eyes, rather than anything lower.

Tonight her lovely madonna’s face appeared strained and wan. Faintly etched lines were plain about her eyes; not lines of age, he thought, but of something worse. Suffering, perhaps. How he hated that. Never would he have wished such a thing on her, not even in his darkest days. At least he hoped that he would not have done so. But then again, he had been so impetuous and insecure. Perhaps he had even wished worse on her. He was ashamed to think of it now.

Viviana seemed unaware of the music, or of the few people who yet lingered in the parlor. She went straight to the sideboard and poured herself another glass of wine, this time something as dark and red as the earrings she wore, and far less insipid-looking than the sherry they had sipped earlier.

Just then, her eyes caught his across the small room. “Barolo,” she said, her gaze wary over the rim of her glass. “Will you take a little?”

He joined her there. “You look tired, Viviana,” he said, filling a glass for himself. “Is anything wrong?”

She cut an uncertain look in his direction. Just then, Alice and Henry Herndon approached. They looked disconcertingly like a couple tonight, Quin thought, with Alice’s hand lying lightly on Herndon’s arm. And Herndon had that tight, faintly uncomfortable look about him, as if he were reluctantly obliging Alice and her wishes. Quin was glad, for Alice’s sake, that his mother was well engaged with Signor Alessandri.

“There you are, Viviana,” said Alice. “Are the children asleep?”

“Almost,” she answered in her low, throaty voice. “Nicolo’s nurse is reading a story, but it no longer holds his attention. The book is one he has seen a thousand times.”


“I sympathize,” said Alice. “Mine are forever clamoring after more books. I am thinking of giving in. After all, Christmas is almost upon us.”

“Christmas!” said Viviana, her voice suddenly wistful.

“A wonderful time of year, is it not?” said Herndon.

“Yes, my favorite.” Viviana smiled. “I have such memories of my childhood Christmases in Rome, when my mother was still alive.”

“I am sorry,” said his sister. “How old were you when she died?”

Viviana lifted her slender shoulders beneath the shimmering fabric of her gown. “About twelve,” she answered. “Sometime later, Papà’s work took us to Venice, then everything changed.”

Alice looked at her in sympathy. “Do they celebrate Boxing Day in Venice?” she asked. Then, without waiting on an answer, she turned to Quin. “Oh, I know! We must send to Hatchard’s for some new books for Christmas. Quin will help us.”

“Hatchard’s?” said Viviana.

“A bookstore in town,” Alice clarified. “You will doubtless have someone going back and forth, Quin. You could arrange for a few packages to be brought from town, could you not?”

Quin inclined his head. “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “You have only to make a list. Indeed, I shall fetch them myself.”

Viviana seemed reluctant. “I—no, I could not impose.”

“It would be no imposition,” Quin assured her. And indeed, it would not. If Viviana wanted books, he would fetch books. If she wanted him to slice open a vein and bleed for her, he might well do that, too. Indeed, it had been slowly dawning on him since these last few days that very little had changed so far as his feelings for Viviana were concerned. He was still at her mercy. And still in love with her. Worse, he was beginning to comprehend just what he had given up all those years ago.

But his sister and Henry Herndon were still rattling on—something to do with holly and pine boughs. “It is something of a tradition in the village,” Herndon was explaining. “The children hang greenery everywhere, even in the shops. We usually take a couple of Arlington’s wagons.”

Quin must have looked at them blankly. “The children are already clamoring to decorate the village and church for Christmas,” Alice repeated. “And they have persuaded Mr. Herndon to take them out into the forest next week for the annual gathering of pine and holly. Have you any objection?”

“None whatsoever,” said Quin. He had no objection to anything, save for the awful flip-floppy thing his heart seemed to be doing in his chest every time he looked at Viviana.

Alice gave him one last curious glance, then turned to Viviana. “Would your children care to go, my dear?” she asked. “All the village children are invited.”

“I daresay they would,” said Viviana. “I cannot thank you enough, Alice, for including them in so many lovely things.”

Alice smiled. “We will make an afternoon of it, then,” she said. “Perhaps my brother can be persuaded to accompany us?”

Quin watched a little of the color drain from Viviana’s face. “I would not wish to burden him with the children’s outings,” she said. “And I cannot think he would enjoy it.”

He considered her words for a moment. Perhaps she really had meant what she’d said that afternoon in the cottage. Perhaps she really did believe it best they not see one another again. The thought seemed suddenly to weigh him down.

“I would not wish to intrude,” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

With a lift of one shoulder, Alice seemed to let the matter go. “Very well,” she said. “Let us plan for Thursday if the weather holds.”

“Ah, Herndon,” cried a jovial voice. “There you are! I have been meaning to speak with you all evening about my damp meadow.”

Quin turned to see one of the local landowners wading through the crowd.

Alice took her hand from Herndon’s arm. “I see duty calls,” she grumbled. “Mr. Lawson can never be put off, odious man. I wish his south meadow would turn into a peat bog. But I daresay I ought to go to Mamma now anyway.”

With a murmured good-bye, Herndon slipped away. Alice, too, melted into the crowd. In the distance, Quin watched Lord Digleby pause for breath, then begin the next dance as a laughing crowd of young people drew away from the pianoforte and back onto the dance floor.

“Do you wish to dance?” said Viviana quietly.

He turned to look at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, do you wish to dance?” She was still regarding him warily. “You were watching them a little longingly.”

He shook his head. “You would soon regret it, my dear,” he said. “I cannot dance at all.”

“Oh.” Her voice was soft. “I did not know that.”

He looked down at her hand, which rested lightly on the sideboard. “No, you did not know that, did you?” he said. “In fact, there isn’t very much about me that you do know, is there? Not really.”

“Perhaps not,” she agreed.

For a long moment, he was silent. “And does it ever bother you, Vivie,” he finally said, “that we don’t know those kinds of things about one another? Does it not trouble you that there are things we should have shared and did not?”

She surprised him by going suddenly pale. “P-Precisely what sorts of things?”

He shrugged both shoulders, feeling as if his jacket had grown suddenly too tight. “I cannot dance,” he repeated, dropping his voice. “You love Christmas. Your mother died when you were a child. For well over a year, we lay together, you and I, knowing one another’s bodies but neither of us ever learning the other’s heart or habits or memories, or anything, I now think, that truly mattered.”

He seemed to have stunned her into silence. Viviana looked up at him, her eyes wide and her mouth a little tremulous. He realized he had struck a nerve, and he was not at all sure that he had wished to. But it was too late.

“Why, Vivie?” he demanded, his voice an urgent whisper. “Why did we never share our hearts?”

“Oh, please do not start this,” Viviana whispered. “Please do not do this to me, Quin. Not here, amongst all these people. For God’s sake.”

Quin lowered his voice even further. “When, then?” he rasped. He caught her hand between their bodies, turning his shoulders so that no one else might see. “When can I see you again? Vivie, there are things I need to ask you. Things I need to understand.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. “There is nothing left for us to discuss, Quin.”

“I think there is,” he said, a little roughly. “I think there might be. Viviana, come into the library with me.”

“Dio mio, are you mad?” she whispered. “We agreed, Quin. Just once.”

“God damn it, Viviana, did I ask you to do anything?” he asked. “Anything other than talk?”

She shook her head, her eyes hardening. “Not here,” she said again. “I cannot. I must go.”

She had half turned away when he caught her by the arm. “Tomorrow, then,” he said. “Meet me at the cottage.”

“No, Quin. I shan’t do it.”

His jaw clenched. “Then I shall call at Hill Court.”

Viviana dropped her gaze. “And I cannot stop you, can I?”


“No, you cannot,” he agreed. “Not this time. I have a few questions for you, Viviana. And by God, you are going to answer them.”

But Viviana did not reply. She had already turned her back and walked away. Her spine was set in a straight, elegant line as she floated across the room toward Aunt Charlotte. Already, her smile had warmed, albeit a little tremulously, and her hands had extended in greeting. To anyone else’s eyes, she had again become the serene madonna. Viviana, the consummate actress. And a trained diva to her very core. Or was he simply fooling himself? Perhaps they really did have nothing to talk about. Perhaps Viviana was just as hardened as she seemed.

Was this wise, he wondered, to press her to answer questions when he feared to hear the answers? He didn’t even know what he wanted of her. More than her body. But something less, he thought, than her soul. He wanted, really, what he had once thrown away. He wanted a chance.

Was it too late? Was there anything left of Viviana’s heart to hope for? Or his, come to that? Perhaps he was going to be sorely disappointed. Perhaps he was making a terrible mistake in forcing the issue. But like so many he had made in life, it was a mistake that he already knew he was going to make. And then, as he always did, he would simply have to live with the result.



Viviana managed to cross the room without stumbling or trembling. She even managed to greet Lady Charlotte and enquire after her health, with a measure of composure. But all the while she felt Quin Hewitt’s eyes burning into her back.

After a moment with Lady Charlotte, Viviana was able to excuse herself. She went at once to the ladies’ retiring room, hoping desperately for a moment alone in which to fully compose herself. Quin’s questions had shaken her badly. She wished to God he had never gone into that schoolroom.

Her moment alone was not to be. Alice was there before her, bent over a basin of water, her face more bloodless than Viviana’s doubtless was. Alarmed, Viviana touched her lightly on the elbow. “Alice, cara, what is wrong?”

Alice gave a nervous laugh. “What a question that is!” she said, snatching up a hand towel to wipe her brow. “But never mind. I’m well enough now.”

Viviana’s eyes searched her face. Alice was not well, and even a fool could see it. “Myself, cara, I was always prone to the—the nausea mattutina,” she said quietly. “Si, the morning sickness.”

Alice’s hand suddenly stopped. The towel fell to the floor. “Oh, Viviana!” she whispered. “Oh, God! What am I to do?”

Viviana settled one hand between Alice’s shoulder blades. “Tell me, Alice, does Mr. Herndon know?”

“No,” she whispered sorrowfully. “Until today, I was not certain. And now I am afraid, Vivie, to tell him.”

“Alice, you must.” Viviana rubbed her shoulders soothingly. “Trust me, I know of what I speak.”

Alice looked at her beseechingly. “It was just the one time, Vivie!” she said. “I promised him it would be all right. And I thought it would be! Why, oh, why do I have to be so bloody fertile?”

“But Mr. Herndon will do the right thing, will he not?”

“Oh, yes,” said Alice on a sniff. “He will. But he will be so angry with me.”

Viviana was confused. “He does not…he does not care for you, cara?”

Alice began to cry in earnest. “He a-a-adores me,” she admitted between sobs. “We have been in love for an age now—since long before I married. But Mamma will make his life a living hell, Vivie. She will say that I am marrying beneath the family.”

“Does it matter so much what she thinks?” asked Viviana. “You love him. Your brother likes him, yes? And your children?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” sobbed Alice. “I just want Mamma to be happy, too. I just want her to approve. It—it’s silly, isn’t it?”

“Not silly, no,” said Viviana. “But impossible, perhaps, at first. And you do not have time, Alice, to win her favor in this regard. Promise me, bella, that you will tell Mr. Herndon tonight? A Christmas wedding would be lovely.”

Alice’s sobs were subsiding. “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it?” she managed. “The children are going to decorate everything with greenery. It would be perfect—if we had time to call the banns.”

“The banns?” Viviana did not know the word. “Is there no other way one can marry without this calling?”

Alice shrugged. “A special license would enable us to wed quickly and privately,” she said. “Mamma would tolerate that more readily, perhaps? But I’m not sure Henry has the connections to obtain one.”

Viviana cupped Alice’s cheek in her hand. “But your brother would, would he not?” she asked. “You must ask him, bella, for his help in this. He will do it, I know.”

“Yes, all right,” said Alice. She was sounding more herself. “Yes, of course Quin will help me. And he might back Mamma down, too. He did so this afternoon, at any rate.”

“Eccellente,” said Viviana. “Now, you must go to Henry at once, then to your brother. Will you do it?”

Alice nodded. “I have no choice, have I? Yes, I will do it.”

Viviana smiled. “Good, then announce the wedding tonight,” she said. “Do not wait. Your uncle must propose a toast, and pretend it was the reason for this sudden dinner party. Everyone will think it desperately romantic.”

Alice laughed. “They will, won’t they?” she said. “Oh, Viviana, you are so daring.”

Viviana shook her head. “I wish that were true.”

Alice dashed a hand beneath her eyes. “How do I look?”

“Like a bride,” said Viviana with a smile. “A beautiful bride. Now, go. I will follow you down.”

Alice’s news did little to dispel the sense of dread hanging over Viviana. After five minutes, she returned to the withdrawing room to see that Alice and Mr. Herndon were already deep in conversation. Viviana’s attention was distracted, however, when Lucy appeared at the door of the butler’s pantry.

Lucy had been summoned by her aunt to help with tonight’s preparations, and with good reason, perhaps. She was now crooking her finger at Viviana a little frantically.

“What is wrong, Lucy?” asked Viviana. “Does Mrs. Douglass need me?”

“She says to tell you we’re all out of orgeat syrup, miss,” whispered Lucy. “Becky dropped the last bottle in the stillroom floor and it broke in ten thousand pieces! Nigh cut her finger off doing it, too.”

“Oh, dio!” said Viviana. “Poor girl! Ought we to put out more wine instead?”

Lucy shook her head. “Lady Charlotte isn’t allowed any by the doctors,” she answered. “And Mrs. Lawson won’t touch it, nor let her family, neither. From a stiff-rumped Methodist family, that one. And none of ’em look to be leaving anytime soon.”

“Yes, I noticed,” said Viviana dryly.

And once Alice’s announcement was made—if it was made—another half hour of toasting and gossiping would likely follow. “What else, Lucy, can we serve?”

Lucy looked worried. “Aunt Effie says we’ve lemons, though they might have gone off already.”

“We must have a look,” said Viviana, grateful for a chance to escape.

When they arrived in the stillroom, a ruddy-cheeked kitchen maid was just finished mopping up the last of the orgeat syrup. Lucy pulled out one of the bins to reveal perhaps two dozen lemons in varying degrees of desiccation.


“Disgustoso,” muttered Viviana.

“Amen to that, miss,” said Lucy.

Just then, Dr. Gould stuck his head into the stillroom. “I hear we have had some misfortune down here,” he said. “How may I help?”

“Well, there’s no help for these lemons,” said Lucy. “The risen Christ himself couldn’t bring ’em back. But Becky’s in the servants’ hall bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

“She cut her finger,” Viviana clarified. “Could you help Mrs. Douglass dress the wound?”

“Yes, I should be glad to.”

With Dr. Gould dispatched, Viviana returned to the lemons. “Give me a knife, Lucy,” she said. “You make the sugar water. There must surely be enough life in these lemons for a little lemonade.”

Lucy looked dubious, but drew a knife from one of the drawers. “I reckon we can try, miss.”

Ten minutes later, Viviana had hacked and quartered and dissected every lemon in the bin. Lucy managed to wring them dry, salvaging just enough juice for a gallon of strong, sweet lemonade. The ruddy-cheeked housemaid reappeared, and at Viviana’s instruction, carried the tray up to the withdrawing room.

Viviana collapsed into a slatted chair at the small wooden worktable and propped her face in her hand. “Dio, what next?” she asked. “Lucy, have we any wine in here?”

“Just the cooking sort, miss,” said Lucy. “And some of Aunt Effie’s dandelion. But oughtn’t you get back upstairs?”

“Yes,” said Viviana. “I ought. But pour us something anyway.”

Lucy frowned disapprovingly. “I’ll have to fetch glasses from the—”

“A mug,” Viviana interjected, holding up her hand. “A jam jar. Anything. Just don’t open that door to the outside world for a few moments, and I shall be forever in your debt.”

“That bad, is it, miss?” asked Lucy, taking down a pair of jars from the cupboard.

Viviana managed a smile. “My nerves are rubbed raw,” she admitted. “But for the most part, I’ve no one to blame but myself.”

Lucy set down a stout, brown jug and drew up a chair. “Lord Wynwood again, is it, miss?”

Viviana shrugged. “Oh, it is a little bit of everything, I daresay,” she answered as Lucy poured. “But had I known he would be living here, in such proximity to Chesley…well, I hope I would have had sense enough not have come.”

“You hope not, miss?” Lucy gently pressed. “But you’re not sure?”

Viviana picked up her jar and pensively swirled the wine around in the bottom. “Lucy, I am not very sure of much anymore,” she admitted. “But yes, I am sure I would never have come here.”

“Well, you know what I think, miss,” said Lucy warningly. “Besides, your husband’s in the grave now, so there’s no harming him.”

Viviana felt her heart lurch. “I know what you are suggesting,” she said quietly. “But I cannot risk making my daughter the subject of gossip. And what if…what if Wynwood won’t forgive me? What if the things I assumed all those years ago were just wrong?”

Lucy patted her hand. “Mind you, miss, I’m not saying they were wrong,” she answered. “I think you had the right of it back then. Mr. Hewitt was young, rich, and a little spoilt. He might not have done right by you. But to keep such a secret now? I don’t know…”

For a moment, they sipped their wine in silence. “I saw your eldest in the village last week, miss,” said Lucy when she spoke again. “I’ve got worries in that direction, too.”

Viviana’s eyes widened. “Worries? Of what sort?”

Lucy shrugged. “Well, she favors you in the face, miss,” she said. “But that mess of coppery brown hair? It’s not brown, and it’s not red, and it’s not quite blond, either. And from the back, miss, she looks the spit and image of Lady Alice when she was young. It mightn’t be long, miss, before someone besides me notices, too, if you take my meaning.”

Viviana froze. In her husband’s family, where dark hair and eyes were so common, Cerelia’s unusual shade of brown had been often remarked upon. And Lucy was right, now that Viviana considered it. Their coloring was shockingly similar.

When Viviana looked up from her wine, Lucy was studying her face rather intently. “Your nose has been broken, hasn’t it, miss, since we last knew one another?” she remarked, as if determined to change the subject. “A nasty break, too, if I don’t miss my guess.”

Reflexively, Viviana touched it. “Yes, I broke it,” she confessed. “Ugly, is it not?”

“Oh, no, miss!” said Lucy. “I think it gives you—”

“Do not say it!” Viviana’s hand came up. “I beg you!”

“Say what, miss?”

“That it gives me character,” said Viviana. “Per amor di Dio! I shall scream at the next English person who tells me that.”

“All right, then.” Lucy grinned. “I won’t say it.”

Viviana felt her mouth curl at one corner. “No, but you are thinking it.”

Together, they laughed. It felt good, Viviana realized. Some of the strain fell away. She finished the last of her wine and made a face. “What is this, Lucy?” she asked. “It’s perfectly dreadful, you know.”

Lucy just grinned, and poured her more. “I told you it was Aunt Effie’s dandelion wine.”

“Dandelion? Like the—the little flowers? It has no fruit?”

Lucy shook her head. “Just the flower heads, with water, yeast, and sugar,” she said. “Along with orange and lemon juice.”

Viviana found it horrifying—and yet strangely funny. She gave the wine a little sniff, then pushed it away. “Non più! I cannot drink any more.”

Lucy smiled. “Well, at least your nose still works, miss,” she said. “No harm was done, right?”

“No,” she said quietly. “No harm was done.” But that, she knew, was a lie. Great harm had been done, and she was suffering for it.

Lucy was watching her face. “What happened to your nose, miss? Was it an accident?”

Viviana had perhaps had a little more of the bizarre dandelion wine than was wise. She was also growing weary of maintaining the fa?ade of a happy marriage. “That depends on your definition of ‘accident,’ I daresay,” she answered.

A knowing look flashed across Lucy’s face. Viviana realized that she had said too much. She neither wanted nor deserved anyone’s sympathy. Not even Lucy’s.

“Was it your husband, miss?” she asked, her voice quiet. “Was it that Gianpiero? If it was, then, well, I reckon I’m glad he’s dead.”

Viviana did not answer that. Instead, she drew her chair a little closer to the table. “Lucy, there is something I wish to tell you about my husband,” she said. “And then, I wish never to speak of it again.”

“As you wish, miss,” she answered. “I’m not one to be pushy, as I hope you know.”

But Viviana had been wrong to leave this matter hanging unexplained for so many years. Lucy had been a good and trustworthy servant—and yes, a friend, too. If she was given to idle talk, she would have told all that she knew a long time ago. “Gianpiero was my father’s patron, Lucy,” she said. “Do you know what that means?”


Lucy shook her head.

“He provided financial backing for my father’s artistic endeavors,” Viviana said. “He had great influence in Venice and all over Europe, too. In the world of opera, Gianpiero could decide who ate and who starved, Lucy. Do you understand?”

“Like a steward or a butler?” asked Lucy. “He could hire you, or turn you off?”

“Something like that,” Viviana responded. “We lived in a villa on the edge of his estate. Eventually, Gianpiero began to pay a marked attention to me. He—he made it plain he wished me to be his mistress. I was appalled, as was my father. It created a terrible rift between Gianpiero and my father.”

“Ooh, he sounds like a bad egg, miss,” said Lucy chidingly.

“A bad egg?” asked Viviana.

“It’s an expression, miss,” said Lucy. “He was a nasty sort of fellow.”

“Nasty, yes,” said Viviana. “He could be. Yet he could also charm the birds from the trees if he wished it. But my father was very protective of me. When Gianpiero began to press me to return his—his affections, my father sent me away and asked Lord Chesley to help me find a place in an English opera company.”

Lucy nodded. “And that’s when you came to me,” she said. “I always knew, miss, that you carried a heavy weight.”

“Yes, Gianpiero became very angry,” she said. “As soon as he realized I was gone, he tried to break my father financially, but Papà would not relent. Finally, after many long months had passed, they had a reconciliation of sorts. Gianpiero offered marriage. Papà left the decision to me.”

“Aye, and it seemed the best thing to do, did it, miss?”

“It ensured my father could return to the work he loved,” said Viviana. “And so I went home, and I told Gianpiero that I carried a child. I thought that, one way or another, telling the truth would end it.”

“But did you tell him about Lord Wynwood, miss?”

“I said only that he was a wealthy Englishman,” Viviana answered quietly. “Gianpiero was enraged, to be sure. But he married me. And now he is dead, so I suppose there is no point in dwelling on the past, is there?”

“Still, I am sorry for your children, miss,” said Lucy soberly. “My little ones do love their father.”

“My daughters saw little of Gianpiero,” she said a little hollowly. “He was not fond of children.”

“But he took care of the child you carried,” said Lucy. “He kept his bargain, in that way, at least.”

Viviana hesitated. “In the end, yes.”

Lucy lifted one brow. “What do you mean, miss, ‘in the end’?”

She swallowed hard and looked about the tidy stillroom, wondering in some surprise that she was actually speaking of it aloud. But Lucy was the only person who knew the truth, and Viviana was beginning to think she might well go mad from keeping it bottled inside.

“As soon as our vows were spoken, Lucy, he took me away,” she answered. “To a villa in the south of France. And there he told me that if the child was a boy, he meant to forswear it and leave it with the nuns to raise.”

“Oh, miss! No.”

Viviana was staring into the depths of the kitchen. “He kept me there for the whole of my confinement,” she whispered. “Because he could not bear the thought of another man’s son inheriting his wealth and title. I had not thought of that, you see. I was so naive. My family was not noble. We did not have a dynasty to protect. And so I spent the last seven months of my pregnancy, Lucy, on my knees, praying for a daughter. I was lucky. God was very kind.”

Lucy stared silently into her wine for a moment. “Aye, he was, wasn’t he?” she answered. “The pure spite of people never ceases to surprise me, miss. I’m sorry for you. I truly am.”

“You needn’t be,” she replied. “It is just as you used to say, Lucy. If one makes one’s own bed, one must lie down, si?”

Lucy smiled. “Something like that, miss,” she said.

Just then, the clopping of hooves and the reverberating grind of carriage wheels broke the stillness.

Lucy cast her eyes up at the narrow casement window which peeked out aboveground. “That’d be the first carriage coming up from the stables, miss,” she said warningly. “Lady Charlotte’s, belike. You’d best get on upstairs, or you’ll be missed for certain now.”

They both stood, each looking at the other uncertainly. “Oh, Lucy!” Viviana finally said. “I have made a shambles of my life, have I not? And now I have burdened you with it, and I don’t even know why.”

Lucy touched her hand lightly. “It’s not a shambles, miss,” she said. “You’ve had hard choices, that’s all. Sometimes it’s just a woman’s lot in life, and—”

A light knock interrupted them. Dr. Gould stuck his head into the room. “Ah, you are still here, Contessa Bergonzi!” he said. “I’ve put three stitches in Becky’s thumb, and all’s well. And now I hear that our presence is requested in the withdrawing room. His lordship is about to make some sort of important announcement.”

Viviana plastered the smile back on her face and swept across the stillroom toward him. “An important announcement?” she said brightly. “How exciting! I wonder what it could be?”