Two Little Lies

Fourteen

In which Lucy almost Lets It Slip.

Q uin was drenched by the time he reached Arlington Park’s gatehouse. Through the gloom, he could already see the glow of lamplight through the tidy village windows, and in Aunt Charlotte’s drawing room, too. Along the narrow lane to his left, shops and cottages lay still. The sign of the Black Lion swung wildly in its cast-iron bracket, the sound shrill and grating to his ears. Quin turned and nudged his horse in the opposite direction.

The rain did not let up and ran off his hat brim in tiny torrents. Along the main road, he saw no one, and reached the narrow country lane which led to Arlington’s evergreen forest without incident. Here, he dismounted and began to walk, calling Cerelia’s name into the hedgerows. It was possible, he supposed, that she had sheltered there.

A small part of him wondered why he was doing this. Surely he could have sent out all the servants to comb the hills and forests—and quite possibly he still would do, if the child was not easily found. But a larger part of him was truly worried. He had developed a deep fondness for the girl. It was rooted, in part, in his love for her mother. And yet it went beyond that, in a way he could not quite explain, even to himself.

He wondered how far ahead of him Viviana was. He prayed the drenching rain would drive her to Lucy Watson’s, or perhaps even on to the cottage. There, a good fire was already laid in the hearth. He hoped she would think to light it.

He was heartsick over the bitterness with which he and Viviana had last parted. But what choice had she left him? Her emotional guard had been up, and for no real reason that he could see. He did not for one moment believe that Viviana was cowed by his mother. No, there was something else. Something far more painful than that, he thought. Perhaps it had something to do with her first marriage?

“All I know, caro,” she had said to him, “is that it is easier to marry a man whom you do not love than to marry a man who does not love you.”

Since that awful day, Quin had given her strange sentiment a great deal of thought and decided they were wise words indeed. It had been true even of him, had it not? Quin had been perfectly happy to marry Miss Hamilton, whom he had not loved. But if Viviana came to him now on her knees and begged him to have her, begged him to be a father to her children, and to protect her with his name and his honor for all of eternity—no, he would not do it. Not until she told him she loved him. He had not, however, given up in that regard. He had thought long and hard about Viviana during his trip to London with Herndon. And now he had, as Alasdair was fond of saying, one card yet up his sleeve.

But all that must be set aside for the moment, he reminded himself. Cerelia was all that mattered. He continued on foot for another two miles, calling first for Cerelia, then for Viviana. At last, however, he topped a high hill and looked down upon the Watson cottage, tucked neatly behind its stone fence, its every window aglow like a beacon of hope.

This, he prayed, was where he would find Cerelia. Lucy was a sensible woman. She would put the child in a tub of warm water by the fire and fill her belly with hot porridge. Feeling strangely hopeful, he hurried down the hill.

His heavy knock was answered by Lucy herself. Her eyes widened as Quin shook the water from his hat and ducked beneath the lintel to enter.

“My lord,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsy. “What on earth—?”

Through the wide kitchen door, he could see children seated at the table. Cerelia was not amongst them. He returned his gaze to Lucy, but his face must have fallen. “I’ve come about Cerelia,” he said. “Lucy, what can you tell me? Anything?”

Lucy’s expression faltered. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Surely you’ve seen Viviana by now?” he went on, panicked by Lucy’s blank look. “Surely you’ve heard?”

The confusion in Lucy’s expression cleared. “Ah, told you everything, has she?” Her voice went suddenly soft. “Well, thank God in heaven, my lord. It’s been a heavy burden to me these many years.”

For a moment, Quin simply stood there, dripping onto Lucy’s flagstone floor. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “We…we seem to be at cross-purposes here.”

Lucy suddenly went white. “I—I beg your pardon,” she said again. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid I mistook you. What is it you’ve come for, sir?”

Quin looked at her quizzically. “Cerelia got separated from the other children this afternoon,” he said quietly. “Hasn’t Viviana been by here looking for her?”

Still pale, Lucy shook her head. “There’s been naught come by here, my lord, since Mr. Herndon brought the wagons out this afternoon,” she whispered. “What can have happened to the poor child?”

“Yes, and what of Viviana?” he said grimly. “She should have been riding ahead of me. I hoped they would be here.”

Lucy touched him lightly on the elbow. Her color was returning. “Do come in by the parlor fire, my lord. You’ll catch your death in those clothes.”

He shook his head. “I must find Cerelia,” he said, slapping his hat back on his head. “And now Viviana, too. We’ll be lucky if the child doesn’t take a chill or worse.”

Lucy nodded and opened the door. “I’ll keep a lamp burning in the window, my lord,” she promised. “When you find them, bring them to me straightaway, and I’ll see they’re warmed up proper.”

Beyond the door, rain still spattered loudly. Quin gave a tight nod and ducked back out into the weather. Vaguely, he wondered what was wrong with Lucy Watson. There was something there in what she had said—something important that was escaping him. But just now he could think only of Cerelia and Viviana, of the urgent need to find them.

As darkness crept nearer, the rain finally eased, and he found himself at the foot of the old forest road. This was the way into the pines which Herndon would have taken. It was here, Lottie had said, that Cerelia slipped off the wagon and ran back into the trees. It was a long shot, surely. The road was clearly marked, such that even a confused child could have found her way back out again. But something, instinct perhaps, impelled him forward.

He remounted, and allowed the horse to pick his way up the rough, needle-slick path, for it was hardly what one would call a road. At last the rain slackened. He caught the scent of damp ashes well before he saw them. There was an old fire pit near the turnaround, he recalled. Someone had recently used it. Just Herndon, most likely. Still, hope drove him hard up the hill, bellowing Cerelia’s name into the gloom.

In the clearing, something which looked like a bundle of old rags lay near the steaming, sodden fire pit. He leapt from his horse, unstrapped the blanket, and rushed the rest of the way up he hill. “Cerelia?”

The bundle moved, and lifted up. A mop of bronze hair popped out beneath it, and two bereft blue eyes looked up at him. Quin fell to his knees, and dragged the child hard against him. “Cerelia, thank God!” he whispered. “Oh, child! Where have you been?”

At that, Cerelia burst into tears. Not knowing what else to do, Quin just held her tighter. Her entire body seemed to shudder against his. Quin pressed his lips to her hair and surveyed the scene.

The child had been huddled beneath some sort of old rug or horse blanket, it appeared. The fire was made of thick, heavy logs which had been barely burnt, then kicked hither and yon. Herndon’s work, he assumed. But it looked as though Cerelia had been industrious enough to prod it back to life for a while. A little heat yet radiated from the ground, and the scent of smoke was thick in the air.


“You were very smart, Cerelia, to rekindle the fire,” he said, patting her gently between her narrow shoulder blades. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Her sobs were like little gulps now. She felt like a fragile, almost ephemeral creature in his arms. Like something precious that might slip from his grasp at any moment. There was an awful knot in his throat, and his every instinct wished to protect her. At last, she lifted her head from his coat front.

“I—I thought someone w-would come back for me!” she sobbed.

He set his lips to her forehead. “And so they have, mouse,” he answered. “I’m sorry we were so slow.”

“I tried to c-catch up with the others,” she said between sniffles. “But when I got to the road, I—I couldn’t remember whether I was to go left, or go right. I got so scared. I did not know what to do.”

Quin bent his head to look at her. “And so you came back here, and stayed put, hmm?” he said. “Very wise. Now, let’s get you wrapped in a blanket and find a good, roaring fire.”

Cerelia snuffled loudly, and pulled away. It was then that he noticed her curled fist. “Am I g-going to be in t-trouble now?” she asked, staring at it.

Quin tipped her chin up with his finger. “Accidents happen, mouse,” he said. “Why would you be in trouble?”

Slowly, the child uncurled her fist. In the fading daylight, he could see something metallic pooled in her hand. She had been clutching it so hard, the big, square stone had left an almost brutal impression in her palm. Quin lifted it up, and studied it. The jewel looked lifeless in the gloom, but he recognized at once the strange fob Cerelia wore about her neck.

“Is this the thing you lost, Cerelia?” he asked quietly. “The thing you went back to search for?”

Mutely, the child nodded.

“Are you not supposed to have it?”

She shook her head.

“Then it is not yours?”

“No, it…it is mine,” she said. “Mamma gave it to me. A long time ago. It’s my magic ring. It has special powers. But she does not like me to wear it.”

Her mother gave it to her?

Why had Viviana lied? Cerelia had not simply “found” it. Nor was it paste and pinchbeck, he’d wager. A strange, surreal feeling was coming over Quin as he studied it. A kind of numbness—and yet not numbness at all. It was rather as if one’s leg had gone to sleep, and now all the feeling was flooding back, nerve by nerve, and hurting all the worse for it. Except that it was not his leg, but his entire body. His brain. His heart. A rush of emotion and suspicion which left him breathless. And then an agonizing certainty. He felt frozen to the ground, rooted to the forest floor with Cerelia still in his arms.

Just something Cerelia found. He could hear Viviana’s emotionless words echoing in his head. Lies. All lies.

He held the large ruby to what was left of the light. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest. “What happened to it, Cerelia?” he choked. “How…how was it damaged?”

A look which could only be described as fear sketched over her face. “My—my papà—Gianpiero—he got very angry,” she whispered.

“What did he do?” Quin’s voice was a raw whisper.

Her wide, innocent eyes looked up at him plaintively. “I do not think I am supposed to tell.”

Somehow, he smiled. “It is all right, Cerelia,” he answered. “You need to tell me.”

The child licked her lips uncertainly. “I think he—he did not wish Mamma to wear it,” she confessed. “He—he took it off her finger. And then he smashed it with a—a martello. A thing to hit with.”

Quin tried to think. “A—a hammer?”

“A hammer,” she agreed. “A big one, for the garden. For the working of stone.”

Good God! A sledgehammer?

Cerelia’s eyes were glazed over with terror, as if she saw not the present, but the past. “He smashed it,” the child whispered. “And said very bad words. He said he did not love me. And that Mamma was a—a—oh, I don’t know the word. Something ugly. She cried, and begged him for the ring, so that I might have it instead. But that made him angrier still, and so he…he—”

“He what, Cerelia?”

The child dropped her gaze. “I—I cannot remember,” she whispered.

Quin looked at the girl’s bereft face. He did not for one moment believe she did not remember. She had the look of one who remembered all too well. But what? Dear God, what had this child suffered? For an instant, he feared he might be ill. He felt himself literally trembling inside, shaking with rage and fear and the almost overwhelming urge to pull Cerelia to him and never let her go. He put his arms around her, and she all but threw herself against him.

“You do not need to remember, Cerelia,” he whispered into her hair. “And I shan’t ask you about it. Do not think of it ever again. All right?”

“All right.” The words, tinged with relief, were muffled against his chest.

Cerelia. Poor, precious child! His child—left at the mercy of a raving bedlamite! God damn Viviana Alessandri to hell for this. And God damn him, too.

Just then, the wind kicked up, bringing him back to the present. He must control himself. He must get Cerelia out of this chill. It was his duty, in every sense of the word now. A duty long overdue. Gently, he tucked the fob and chain deep in his coat pocket. From here, there was a shortcut up through the forest which should take them straight to Hill Court. He only prayed he could remember the way.

“Come along, mouse,” he said, unfurling the dry blanket he’d carried up the hill. “Let’s get you safely home.”

The wide-eyed uncertainty returned. “I w-want my Mamma,” she whimpered. “I j-just don’t want her to be angry with me.”

Quin came to his feet with Cerelia in his arms, though he still trembled with rage. “Don’t fret, sweet,” he answered making his way back to his horse. “She will not be angry with you.”

She wriggled herself deeper into the blanket. “Are—are you quite sure, my lord?”

Somehow, Quin managed another smile. “I promise you, Cerelia,” he answered, giving her a quick peck on the nose. “And I always keep my promises. Trust me, that lost ring will soon be the least of your Mamma’s concerns.”



Viviana was in tears by the time her father and Lord Chesley returned home. She had been quarreling with Signora Rossi for the last half hour, to no avail. Basham had sent every footman and groom out into the night with lanterns, but it had done nothing to calm Viviana. She demanded to be taken out in a cart to search for Cerelia, but Basham and Signora Rossi had conspired to keep her at home. She would be a fool, the old nurse kept insisting, to leave the house when Cerelia might be carried in at any moment, terrified and crying for her mother.

Viviana was certainly terrified. The gentlemen found her flung across the divan in the parlor, a damp handkerchief crumpled in her fist. Her father paled when he saw the cane beside her. “Viviana, bella, che cosa è quello?”

“Gad, Vivie, a cane?” boomed Chesley, coming in with Lord Digleby. “And Basham looks like his mother just died.”

Somehow Viviana dragged herself up off the divan. She had given up trying to be strong; trying to be in control of the situation, when she so obviously was not. “Oh, Papà! Oh, Chesley! Non ci credo! Such terrible news!” With her father clutching her hand, Viviana tearfully relayed the day’s events, ending with her impetuous ride, and the humiliating fall from Champion which ended it.


“And now they won’t drive me back out!” she cried. “Chesley! Chesley, affrettarsi, per favore! You will take me in your barouche, si?”

“Poor little Cerelia!” murmured Chesley. “And poor you, Vivie. But never fear, my girl. Quin will fetch our Cerelia home, of that I’ve no doubt. Far better that you should stay put.”

Viviana began to vehemently protest in a firestorm of bad English and overwrought Italian, but Chesley was saved from the worst of it when hoofbeats rang out in the carriage drive. Viviana snatched her cane and limped to the window. A lone rider in a sodden, broad-brimmed hat appeared in the pool of lamplight beyond the front steps, carrying someone or something before him. “Oh!” Her hand went to her heart. “Oh, can it be?”

“See, Vivie!” said Chesley. “All’s well. Quin has seen to it.”

But Vivie had already headed for the entrance hall. The door stood open, the sharp air blessedly cool on her feverish, tear-stained face. Basham had gone out to assist, but Quin had already dismounted. He shouldered his way through the door and into the passageway, carrying Cerelia wrapped in a thick wool blanket.

“Oh, mia cara bambina!” Viviana’s hands clasped her face, which was cold as death. “Oh, grazie a Dio!”

“Mamma,” she said quietly. “I…I got lost.”

“But you are home now,” said Viviana, choking back a sob. “Home, and safe, my precious. Oh, grazie, Quin. Thank you. Thank you so very much. Where was she? Is she hurt?”

Behind her, Chesley and her father had begun to ask questions, too. Digleby joined in the agitation. But Quin was having none of it. “Cerelia was still by the fire,” he said curtly. “And now, if you will pardon me, I must take her upstairs at once.”

“She is shaking terribly,” murmured Viviana. “Oh, Dio mio! Is she ill?”

“I pray not,” Quin answered. “Basham, send someone for Dr. Gould, and tell them to be quick about it.” He cut a glance down at Viviana’s cane. “What happened to you? You look as if you need a doctor, too.”

Later, she was to realize how cool and brusque his tone was. But in that moment, her fear was too newly assuaged, her gratitude too great. “I took a tumble off my horse,” she answered. “But never mind that. Let us get her warm at once.”

“Yes, yes,” said Chesley. “Just the thing! Go up at once. I shall wait for Dr. Gould.”

Viviana scarcely heard him. Her sole concern was for Cerelia. Her hands were blue, her eyes half-closed. “To my room,” she said, hobbling toward the stairs. “There’s a roaring fire, and Mrs. Douglass has set up a trundle bed.”

“Lead on,” he commanded.

At the landing, Viviana looked back anxiously. “How long has she been shaking like this?”

“Since I took her up onto my horse,” he answered tightly. Then he told her of how Cerelia had rekindled the fire for a time and covered herself with the rug for warmth. Viviana sent up a grateful prayer for their forgetfulness in having left it.

“At first, she seemed fine,” Quin continued as they turned into the shadows of the corridor. “But as soon as she began to warm, she grew silent and began to shake. I fear she is taking a chill.”

“Dear God!” Urgently, Viviana pushed open her door.

Inside, two of the housemaids were drawing a slipper bath up to the fire. “I’ve rung for the hot water, ma’am, as Mrs. Douglass ordered,” said the first, straightening up from the tub. “She says a very warm Epsom bath will take the chill from her most quickly. Then Nurse says she’s to have a cup of chicken broth.”

Quin was unwrapping the big blanket from Cerelia. “Where is Nurse?” asked Viviana.

Just then, Signora Rossi came in. The old woman had been with the Bergonzi family for some forty-five years, though her duties consisted of little nowadays. Tonight, however, her special touch would be greatly needed.

Ignoring Quin and Viviana, she went straight to Cerelia, who had become fretful. Gently, the nurse began unfastening her clothing as she cooed at her in mix of Italian, Venetian, and English. The words did seem to soothe the child. Quin made a curt bow in Viviana’s direction.

“I will excuse myself,” he said. “Is there somewhere I might wait until Cerelia is safely in bed? I wish to speak to you.”

Viviana looked at him uncertainly. “Si, certamente,” she answered. “The family sitting room? It is two doors down.”

He bowed again and left.

Viviana waited until Cerelia had been dressed in her warmest nightdress and tucked into the little trundle bed. Signora Rossi rang for the broth to be brought up, and Viviana spooned it into her. Cerelia had stopped the dreadful shaking and seemed perhaps a little more herself.

Another two minutes, and the child fell into a deep sleep. There was nothing more to do save pray for Cerelia’s health. Already, Signora Rossi had taken out her rosary. In all fairness, Viviana could keep Quin waiting no longer. With a sense of unease, Viviana kissed Cerelia’s cheek and left Signora Rossi to sit by the bed. Her blind fear over Cerelia was subsiding, leaving room for a far more logical sort of trepidation.

She found Quin in the family parlor. A fire had been newly kindled in the grate; Quin’s work, she was sure. He was remarkably self-sufficient. He was not seated, but instead was pacing the floor, still in his wet clothes. If he were cold or uncomfortable, he gave no indication. Indeed, so absorbed in thought was he, it seemed he did not hear her enter.

As he turned away and paced the length of the room again, Viviana took in his solid, impossibly wide shoulders, and his long, strong legs, still encased in what must have been miserably wet riding boots. No, not a boy any longer. She wondered if he ever had been. But boy or man, he had always been honorable. And suddenly, despite all her trepidation, an almost choking sense of gratitude sweep over her.

Quin had brought Cerelia safely home. He had not failed her.

She cleared her throat, and he spun around to face her. He did not seem surprised to see her. “What does Gould say?” he demanded. “How is she?”

Viviana shook her head. “Cerelia is sleeping soundly,” she said. “Dr. Gould was from home with an emergency, but is on his way now. What did you wish to see me about?”

Quin did not hesitate, but came at once to his point. “You spoke sometime back, Viviana, of returning to Venice.” His voice was cool. Emotionless. “I am afraid I must ask you to reconsider.”

Viviana blinked uncertainly. “Reconsider going home?” she answered. “But I cannot.”

His gaze swept over her appraisingly, but there was no hint of desire, or even admiration, in it. “So you are resolved, then,” he said. “Have you any better idea of when you will leave?”

“I—I am not sure,” she confessed. “By early spring, at the very latest, I should think.”

His eyes were hard and dark. “If you insist, Viviana, on going, I must warn you that Cerelia will not be accompanying you,” he said. “I wish you to gently accustom her to that fact. Beginning tomorrow.”

“Scusa?” She looked at him blankly, her heart almost thudding to a halt. “I—I do not perfectly comprehend you.”

He tilted his head to one side and studied her. “I think you comprehend me quite well, madam,” he returned, his tone so flat they might have been strangers discussing the weather. “You were never going to tell her the truth, were you? Certainly you were never going to tell me. You have built that poor girl’s life on a lie, Viviana, without one ounce of compunction. Not one whit of remorse or regret. Did you think me such a fool I would never guess the truth?”


The room fell suddenly and deathly still. The reality of what was happening—the horror of her worst fear come true—sank in on her. Viviana grappled for another convincing lie, but instead, her knees nearly buckled. A pair of fragile French armchairs sat nearby. She seized one as though it were a lifeline, her nails digging into the upholstery.

Quin was undeterred. “Sit down, Viviana,” he said roughly. “Sit down, for God’s sake, before you swoon.”

She did so, making her way gingerly around the chair. She had no choice. She was but vaguely aware of his closing the distance between them and standing before her, his boots set stubbornly apart. He shoved a hand into his pocket, and in an instant, the ruby ring dangled before her face, sparkling bloodred as it slowly rotated in the lamplight.

Viviana closed her eyes and looked away.

She felt his hand slide beneath her chin, and force her face back to his. Her eyes flew open of their own accord, and fear made her stomach bottom out. Oh, Dio!

“Do not close your eyes, Viviana,” he growled. “Do not in any way try to evade my questions. The deceit is done and over with, do you hear? Disregard what I say now at your peril.”

Viviana jerked her face from his hand, but did not avert her eyes. “I—I am not disregarding you,” she answered. “I do not know what you want of me. What you are asking. You make no sense to me, Quin. Per favore, I…I wish to return to my daughter now.”

He leaned down and sneered into her face. “As I wish to return to mine,” he growled, his every word growing louder. “But there is an annoying little problem standing in my way, is there not? Someone forgot to tell that poor child who her father is!”

“Quin, stop!” Viviana held out her palm, as if she might avert him. “You do not know what you speak of!”

His face twisted with rage. In a flash of motion, his boot lashed out, kicking the other chair against the wall with almost superhuman strength. “God damn you, don’t you lie to me!” he roared as the chair clattered to the floor, splintering one leg apart. “Let another lie pass your lips, Viviana, and I swear I will take her back to Arlington this very night.”

Viviana fought down her fear. “Don’t be a fool, Quinten,” she answered. “Calm yourself, for God’s sake, before every servant in the house has an ear pressed to the door.”

“I don’t think you grasp the gravity of your situation, Viviana,” he snapped. “I don’t give a good goddamn if the whole village hears! I am not ashamed of her. And what have I to lose, anyway? What? You have my child. You took her from me. And now I want her back.”

Nervously, Viviana licked her lips. He looked and spoke like a madman. Could he do such a thing? Could he just declare Cerelia his, and—and just take her?

“I see your devious brain at work, madam,” he said with a sneer. “You are wondering if I can get away with it. Well, this is England, Viviana. Peers of the realm have rights here—indeed, we make the very laws we all live by—and foreigners have next to none. The child is mine. And for eight years—or is it nearer to nine?—you have enjoyed her company exclusively. You have told her lies and taught her what you pleased, ignoring her rights. Ignoring that she was half-English. That is all at an end now.”

“You…you cannot take my child.” Viviana’s hands were starting to shake uncontrollably. “You cannot. I am…I am her mother, Quinten.”

“And I am her father.” He lifted the ruined ring again and let it twirl in the light, tiny, bloodred sparks flickering at every turn, as if it did indeed hold magical powers. “Deny it, Viviana, if you dare. Deny it before God. No? No, I did not think you could.”

To her undying shame, Viviana burst into tears. “Cerelia is my child,” she sobbed. “You…you cannot take her from me.”

“I think I can,” he gritted. “And I’ll bloody well try if you push me to it. I demand the right to be a parent to my child. I demand what is right for Cerelia. I have no intention of permanently ripping a child from her mother’s bosom—I am not a monster, Viviana—but if you must return to Venice, that is your problem. You shan’t take her from England ever again.”

“You are insane,” she whispered. “Cerelia belongs with me.”

“Cerelia belongs with you?” he echoed incredulously. “With the woman who has cheated her of her birthright? With the woman who has cheated her father of his child? With the woman who tricked her husband into marriage? Oh, no, Viviana. I am being generous. I am being far more generous to you than you ever were to me.”

But Viviana’s anger was fast overcoming her fear. “I never lied to my husband,” she said, her voice tremulous with rage. “What was between Gianpiero and me is none of your business. Go ahead, Quinten! Try to claim her. I will deny it all. Everything. And you cannot prove otherwise.”

“Another lie on top of a lifetime of lies,” he returned. “That is your solution to everything, is it not?”

“I did what I had to do,” she hissed. “Cerelia is my daughter, and I have dealt with it as best I could. I had to. You will recall, Quinten, that you left me no choice.”

His every facial bone seemed to harden. His eyes flashed with fire. “Why, you heartless bitch,” he whispered, stepping closer. “How dare you fling that halfhearted marriage proposal in my face again? Had you told me the truth, Viviana, I would have done the right thing.”

“Oh, si, you would have married me?” Her words were bitterly sarcastic. “Your foreign, bourgeois opera-singing mistress? Now, why is it, Quinten, that I doubt you?”

The lines about his mouth went taut, and he fell silent for a long, expectant moment. “I want Cerelia to know the truth, Viviana,” he finally said. “I do not want her to think that—that some monster was her father.”

“Some define ‘monster’ in more than one way,” she retorted. “Me, I have known many kinds.”

“Just shut up, Viviana,” he snapped. “Cerelia hated Bergonzi. She was terrified of him. And anyone who spends more than five minutes asking her about it can see that. All I am asking—no, ordering—is that you tell her the truth.”

“She knows the truth.” Viviana’s voice sounded weary now, even to her own ears. “Trust me, Quinten. She knows the truth.”

“What?” he demanded. “What does she know?”

Viviana faltered, and looked away. “Cerelia knows that Gianpiero was not her father,” she said quietly. “He…he told her so himself and took great satisfaction in doing it. So you have nothing to worry about on that score.”

“He told her himself?” Quin echoed. “And you—what did you tell her?”

The overwhelming grief swept in on her again like a rushing tide, dragging at her body, making her shoulders sag and her heart sink. “I told her that her father was an Englishman,” she quietly confessed. And that I loved him with all my heart, as he loved me in return.

“Go on,” he prodded.

She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “And I told her that he was very handsome and very rich, but that his parents would not let us marry, and so I had to return to Italy.”

He gaped at her incredulously. “But—But Viviana, that is just not true!”


“It is exactly true,” she returned, her voice soft. “You said they would disapprove, perhaps even cut you off. You said they wished to arrange a marriage for you to a suitable English girl. Quin, per amor di Dio, do not let us fight about it now—but did I somehow misunderstand you all those years ago?”

For an instant, he hesitated. “I—I don’t know what my parents would have done,” he admitted.

But Viviana could not let him off the hook that easily. “Did I somehow misunderstand you, Quinten?” she repeated.

At last, his eyes fell. “No, not entirely,” he answered. “It would have been difficult. But perhaps we could have seen it through, Vivie.”

“Perhaps,” she softly echoed. “Alas, Quinten, one cannot raise children on ‘perhaps.’ They must have certainty. They must have security. And, if at all possible, they must have a family. Cerelia had those things, Quinten. And I sacrificed in ways I should sooner die than talk about in order to give them to her. So do not speak to me, caro, of ‘perhaps.’ That word cannot be permitted to exist in Cerelia’s life.”

“Very well, then.” The words were still curt, but some of the fight, if not the inner rage, had left him, she thought. He opened his hand and let the chain slither through his fingers to pool in her lap. “But I am not speaking of perhaps now,” he continued. “I am speaking of a certainty. I mean to play a role in my child’s life. I mean to be her father. I shall give you time, Viviana, to accustom yourself to that notion, too.”

She lifted one arching black brow. “How very kind of you.”

He nodded curtly. “I shall bid you farewell for the time being,” he said. “Send word to me tomorrow when Cerelia is awake. I will wish to visit her.”

Reluctantly, Viviana returned his nod. He meant to leave her no choice, it seemed. “I shall send someone, si,”

And before she could utter another word, Quin Hewitt had slammed the parlor door and was gone.

Fifteen

Lady Alice and the Gypsy Curse.

Q uin returned to Arlington Park in a turbulent frame of mind. He did not notice that the rain had vanished, and the wind had quieted. He did not feel the deep chill which had set in in earnest, or smell the promise of snow, which now clung fast to the air. He did not appreciate the pure and unexpected stillness of a holy night as it enveloped the land all about him.

Instead, he could think only of Viviana, of what he perceived as her betrayal, not just of him, but of Cerelia, too. They cut to the bone, both the anger and the aching sense of loss. And yet he was wise enough to comprehend that he walked a sharp, perilous edge between his outrage on behalf of Cerelia and his hatred of Viviana.

He hated her because she had not loved him. After nine long years of misery, did it still come down to something so simple, and so petty? A better man would have admitted it, perhaps, and walked away. He was not a better man. He was filled with a burning desire for revenge. What he felt for Viviana would never die. Instead it would turn caustic again, and devour his heart from the inside out. The thought tortured him, even as he gave his horse over to his groom, and walked silently up the steps into his house. His very big, and relatively empty, house.

Alice found him long hours later, drinking brandy by the fire in his private sitting room. She pecked lightly on his door and came in without permission. He turned at once to scowl at her. Alice already wore her nightdress and wrapper. Her hair was down, her long bronze tresses so silken they reflected the lamplight, reminding him of Cerelia. How in God’s name had he missed all the signs?

“Is it now the fashion, Alice, to walk in on gentlemen in the privacy of their bedchambers?” he asked.

Alice slid into the chair opposite him without invitation. “This is not your bedchamber,” she returned, tucking one foot underneath her, as had been her childhood habit. “You did not come down to dinner. Mamma was worried.”

Somehow, he smiled. “And you were not?”

Alice shook her head. “Very little,” she admitted. “You are far more stalwart than Mamma has ever given you credit for—to her great dismay of late.”

Quin gave a muted smile. She was speaking, of course, of his having backed their mother down on the issue of Henry Herndon. Pensively, he swirled the last of the brandy in his glass and wondered if perhaps he should have taken a stand sooner. Perhaps he should have stood up for Alice years ago, when his parents had arranged her marriage to John, announcing it as a fait accompli, and ignoring Alice’s tears.

But he had not dared interfere, just as he had not dared tell them about Viviana. And look what his cowardice had cost all of them. Alice had spent a decade of her existence married to a man she could not love, consigned to a life of longing for the one she adored. Viviana had been compelled to wed one whom she not only did not love, but affirmatively loathed—at least that was the conclusion Quin was fast coming to. And Cerelia…ah, Cerelia. She had paid perhaps the greatest price of all.

“Quin?” His sister’s voice came as if from a distance. “Quin, are you all right?”

“Well enough.” He snatched up his glass and polished it off. “Just tired.”

She looked at him appraisingly. “I do not believe you,” she said. “What happened tonight after you brought Cerelia home? You do not seem yourself. Is it…is it something to do with Viviana?”

Quin could not bear to look at her. “Blister it, Alice, do not meddle in my business.”

But for an instant, he considered telling her. The truth was, he thought, fixing his gaze on the fire, Alice’s sympathy would almost make it worse. He felt pathetically like a child again, as if he’d fallen, and was waiting for his elder sister to pick him up and dust him off once more. But Alice could not help him now. No one could. His rage toward Viviana Alessandri was eclipsed only by his own self-loathing.

Alice sensed his unease, and turned the topic. “Did you have a hot bath, then?” she asked lightly. “Did you get something to eat? You should, you know. Even dashing heroes, Quin, must take care of themselves.”

“Mrs. Prater sent up a tureen of soup.” Quin tore his gaze from the fire and looked at Alice. “I’ve been abusing my body all my life, my dear—hardened it in hellfire, you might say—so it will take a little more than a long, wet ride in a rainstorm to do me any harm. But there is nothing heroic about it.”

Alice propped her chin in her hand, watching as he yanked the stopper from his decanter. He could sense her disapprobation as he poured another measure of brandy. “Celebrating early, are we?” she asked.

He lifted one brow and kept pouring. “Good Lord, Alice,” he muttered. “What have we to celebrate?”

Alice looked a little hurt. “Oh, only my wedding day!” she chided. “I hope you shan’t have a sore head tomorrow morning when you give me away to Henry. If you do, Quin, keep it to yourself. Do not you dare ruin my ceremony, do you hear?”

Holy God. Quin set the decanter down with an awkward thunk. Alice was to be married tomorrow?

Alice was looking mildly irritated now. “Quin, this is Christmas Eve,” she complained. “I vow, you seem not to attend anything anyone does or says nowadays.” She shoved her hand into the pocket of her wrapper, and extracted a small package. “Here, I got you a Christmas gift. I asked Henry to bring it back from London—though perhaps I oughtn’t have bothered.”


“No, you oughtn’t have bothered,” he agreed, taking the package from her outstretched hand. “But I thank you, Allie. I’m very sorry to have forgotten about tomorrow.”

Alice looked somewhat placated. “Well, open it.”

He lifted the lid of the small box. Nestled inside was an ornate silver vesta case, engraved with their family crest. Gingerly, he thumbed it open. It was filled with matches.

“Those are the new, less odorous kind,” said Alice proudly. “One can find them only in London and Paris, you know. Viviana told me about them. As to your old case, well, it is not very attractive, is it?”

Quin managed to grin. “It has had a hard life,” he admitted. “Much like its owner. I shall enjoy this new one greatly, Alice. I thank you.”

She relaxed back into her chair, looking pleased with herself.

“I have something for you, Allie,” he said, rising from his chair and going to his desk. He returned with a thin box made of inlaid rosewood. “This is as much a wedding gift as a Christmas gift, I daresay,” he explained. “I just saw it, and…well, I wished you to have something special for your wedding day.”

Eyes alight, Alice opened it, and gasped. On a bed of black velvet lay a triple strand of pearls, big ones, each strand a little longer than the one above it. The heavy gold clasp was in the shape of two clasped hands, with a diamond mounted on each side. “Dear me!” whispered Alice. “This is…well, this is quite something, Quin. And that clasp! How lovely! One hardly knows whether to wear it in front, or in the back.”

“I thought the diamonds would show to good effect when your hair is up,” he explained. “I am sorry, Allie. So very sorry you have had to wait so long for a life with Henry. Perhaps—perhaps I ought to have done something sooner.”

“Such as what?” Alice looked bemused. “Shoot John? He was pompous, Quin, but even he did not deserve to die.”

Quin smiled, but it did not last. “I meant I should have stopped your marrying him altogether,” he explained. “I should have stood up for you, Allie. I should have done…something.”

“Oh, Quin.” Her voice was so soft. “Oh, my dear, you must not torture yourself over that, of all things. John’s father was Papa’s best friend. They meant us to marry from the cradle, and there was no stopping them. Quin, you must know that. Tell me you do.”

His smile soured. “I don’t know that,” he said quietly. “Because I never tried. And as soon as I was able to escape Papa’s thumb, I just…went away, and lived my own life in London. And a rather meaningless life it has turned out to be.”

Alice closed the rosewood box and folded her hands atop it. “I have no notion, Quin, what you can be thinking,” she answered. “But you seem mired in some sort of odd self-loathing tonight. Something which I have never seen in you before. I—I cannot like it. Pray stop flogging yourself, and remember how things really were.”

Quin grew silent for a moment, and drank down half his brandy. He had had more than was wise, perhaps, given his strange, melancholy mood tonight. For an instant, he hesitated. “Alice, I wish to tell you something.” The words sounded abrupt, even to him. “Something in the greatest of confidence. Something I need to entrust to you.”

Alice looked surprised. “By all means.”

Fleetingly, he closed his eyes. “It is about Viviana,” he began. “She…she and I—”

Alice held up one hand. “You need say no more, Quin,” she interjected softly. “I have already guessed. Anyone with eyes can see that you are in love with her. Even Mamma has begun to suspect.”

He laughed, but it was a harsh, derisive sound. “That transparent, am I?” he said. “But no, that is not it. What little there was between Viviana and me has ended, and rather bitterly. Mamma need have no fear of being saddled with yet another unwelcome in-law.”

Suddenly, Alice’s hand reached for his and clasped it tightly. “Perhaps you misjudge Mamma, Quin,” she said gently. “She…well, she is changing toward Henry. And whilst she is wary of Viviana, she does not dislike her. Indeed, she has made one or two very pretty remarks about her of late, and was very taken with Signor Alessandri at Uncle Ches’s party.”

“It does not matter,” he said, withdrawing his hand, and returning it to his brandy. “It is only the child which concerns me now. Cerelia, I mean. She is…well, she is mine, Alice.”

“Good God!” said Alice. She set her pearls aside and leaned nearer. “How in heaven’s name did that happen?”

Quin managed a sour smile. “The usual way.”

“Oh, Quin!” whispered Alice. “Oh, Quin, surely…surely you did not—”

“Abandon her?” he interjected. “Bloody hell, Alice. I hope you know me better than that. Viviana left me and returned to Venice. I expected us to be together forever—at least, that was the assumption I made in my young, not-very-experienced brain. But Viviana wished to marry. I refused her. So she left me, never telling me…never telling me the truth. About anything.”

Alice blanched, and set a hand atop her stomach. “Well, you won’t wish to hear this, Quin,” his sister said quietly. “But I know just how she felt. Even knowing that Henry loved me, I was afraid to tell him the truth. Even now, Quin, I wish we were marrying only because we choose to, not because we must. But until this child was conceived, he refused me. So there will always be a little part of me…that will wonder. Can you not understand?”

“At least Henry was given a choice, Alice.” Quin’s voice was raw with suppressed emotion. “At least you had the courtesy to tell him and give him the option of raising his own child. Viviana simply married elsewhere and passed the child off as belonging to another.”

Alice looked askance at him. “That was an arranged marriage, Quin,” she answered. “Viviana told me her father arranged everything. And I cannot think that Viviana would deceive someone so. I am sure her husband knew, Quin, what he was getting into.”

“He must have wanted her very desperately, then,” Quin replied. “But he was no father to Cerelia. The child is badly wounded, Alice. I think…I think he was cruel to her. Her eyes, when she mentions his name—oh, God. It is almost more than I can bear.”

Alice’s color had not returned. Despite his turbulent emotions, Quin almost wished he had not burdened her. “What—what is it that you wish of me, Quinten?” she asked. “I am relatively certain we are not having idle chitchat.”

He shook his head. “I hardly know, Alice,” he answered. “I just thought…well, I just thought that someone else in this family should know. Cerelia is a part of us, Alice. I have a duty to her now. God forbid something should happen to me, I…I just wanted someone else to know the truth.”

Alice touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Perhaps, my dear, we ought to leave well enough alone.”

Her words, and their implication, were clear. “Oh, it is far too late for that,” he said grimly. “Bergonzi disowned the child to her face. But I do not know if he disinherited her. I do not know if there is money set aside for her education, or—or for her dowry. For anything. I just do not know. And it worries me, Alice.”


“I collect that Viviana is a wealthy widow, Quin,” said Alice. “Exceedingly wealthy, though she is hardly vulgar enough to speak of such a thing. Bergonzi doubtless agreed to generous marriage settlements. Or perhaps their laws are different from ours? Perhaps a widow inherits all. Or singing is more lucrative than one might guess. In any case, you need not worry about Cerelia in that way, at least. If Bergonzi disinherited the child, Viviana will manage very nicely for her.”

Quin dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course you are right. I just feel this need to do right by the child since it seems so much wrong has been done her already.”

“A notion which I greatly respect,” said his sister. “And you may trust that should all else fail, Henry and I will see to Cerelia’s welfare. You know that we will, do you not?”

Solemnly, he nodded. “I know that you will, Allie,” he said quietly. “I trust you to do the right thing.”

Alice gave a weak laugh and set her palm to her forehead. “Dear God, Quin,” she said. “How does life get so convoluted? How is it when we are so perfectly certain of our paths, God snatches up the pieces of our lives and throws everything askew?”

Somehow Quin, too, managed to laugh. “It is all like a bad game of hazard gone horribly wrong, is it not?” Then, even though he knew he should not, he refreshed his brandy yet again. “Do you remember, Allie, that silly story Merrick told at Mamma’s dinner party last month?”

Alice lifted one brow. “At your betrothal dinner, do you mean?” she murmured. “I recall that something Merrick said had poor Uncle Ches in stitches, but I did not quite get the gist of it.”

“Indeed, Chesley could not stop laughing,” he agreed. “You see, a Gypsy put a curse on us.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Alasdair, Merrick, and me,” Quin clarified. “September last. We three were off on a lark, an illegal boxing match out in Surrey.”

“Merrick attended a boxing match?” she said incredulously. “You two scoundrels, I can easily see. But Merrick? Never.”

“Well, he shan’t do so ever again, I’m sure,” said Quin. “Not with his brother. Alasdair got caught playing tickle-tail with the blacksmith’s wife, and the chap decided to kill us all with a pair of old blunderbusses.”

Alice grinned. “How frightfully exciting! I must remember to tell Mamma.”

Quin shot her a dark look. “I cannot think you serious,” he said. “In any case, this Gypsy allowed us to hide in her tent.”

At that, Alice burst into giggles. “You had to hide—?”

“Yes, but in return, she made us show her our palms and pay to have our fortunes read.” He paused to smile acerbically. “At the time, it seemed quite comical.”

“Oh, even now it seems quite comical,” said his sister. “So? What did she tell you?”

Quin grew quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his tone was grave. “She said that in the past I had often acted rashly,” he admitted. “And spoken too quickly. She said that I would pay for it, and dearly. Then she said that my chick was coming home to roost.”

“But she meant ‘your chickens,’ did she not?”

He shrugged. “I asked her that, and she made me no answer,” he replied. “Then she said that the three of us had cursed ourselves with our dissolute ways, and that our pasts would come back to haunt us. Something to that effect. She said, too, that we would now be required to ‘make things right,’ whatever that meant.”

“Dear me,” murmured his sister. “You shall be very busy indeed if you’re to atone for your sins this side of the grave.”

Quin flashed her a chagrinned smile. “Yes, it is silly, isn’t it?” he said. “Still, it does make one think.”

“You, Quinten, are thinking too much,” said Alice tartly. “You must stop it at once, and go to bed, as I mean to do. And yes, I am only jesting about Mamma.”

Just then, somewhere deep in the bowels of the house, a clock stuck midnight, each bell a slow, almost mournful sound.

Alice rose from her chair, picked up her new pearls, and smiled. “Well!” she said with an enthusiasm which was only faintly spurious. “My long-awaited wedding day has arrived. Wish me happy?”

A smile twisted at his mouth. “More than you will ever know, Allie,” he whispered. “May you have a long and happy life with your Henry.”

“Thank you, I believe I shall.” She bent and kissed her brother on the cheek. “Merry Christmas, Quin.”