Two Little Lies

Five

In which Mr. MacLachlan gives Good Advice.

S ir Alasdair MacLachlan was waiting, both barrels loaded, in the dining room after dinner. After sending Esmée upstairs with her aunt, Quin joined him there. There was, after all, no avoiding it.

Alasdair’s brother, Merrick, poured all three of them a brandy, then sat back on one of the worn leather sofas as if anticipating a great entertainment. Alasdair was pacing back and forth before the fire, his face dark as storm clouds. In the room, anger smoldered like green kindling. Quin could not claim to be surprised. Alasdair had looked daggers at him all throughout the meal. And if Alasdair was looking for a quarrel tonight, Quin was of half a mind to oblige him.

But Scots were sly, and Alasdair especially adept. “A fine meal, Quin,” he began. “And your Mamma’s toast! So touching. I think Lady Tatton actually shed a tear.”

Quin sat down opposite Merrick and exchanged glances with him. “Yes, Mamma is quite in alt,” he replied, wondering what Alasdair was getting at. “It is a relief, to be sure. She has not been happy in a very long time.”

Alasdair turned on one heel and went to the window. The servants had not yet drawn the drapes against the evening’s chill, and, for a long moment, he simply stared out into the night and sipped at his brandy. “Correct me if I am wrong, Quin,” he finally said. “But was that not Viviana Alessandri you had cornered in the alcove near the library?”

“Contessa Bergonzi, yes.”

“Your mistress.” The words were flat.

Quin hesitated. “She once was.”

“Well, if the look in your eyes was any indication, old friend, you very much wish she still was.” Alasdair dropped his voice to a whisper. “And I’ll tell you here and now, Quin, I won’t have it.”

“You won’t have it?” Quin’s voice was incredulous. “I should like to know what business it is of yours if I have a dozen mistresses?”

Quin watched Alasdair’s form quake with rage. God damn it, it wanted only this! He had an overwrought, meddling mother, a perfect fiancée who seemed suddenly not so perfect, and a coldhearted mistress who had picked the world’s most inopportune moment to stroll back into his life. Wasn’t his existence complicated enough without his best friend throwing more thorns in the thicket? And what the devil was wrong with Alasdair, anyway?

Finally, Alasdair turned around. “So help me God, Quin,” he said, “if you take up with that Italian Jezebel again whilst you and Esmée are affianced—or worse, married—then you and I will be meeting at Chalk Farm one cold dawn. Do you understand me?”

“What I understand, Alasdair, is that my marriage is none of your goddamned business,” he returned. “But I wouldn’t have that spiteful bitch if she crawled to me on her hands and knees—and she was far from doing that, I do assure you.”

Alasdair turned nasty then, setting his glass aside with an awkward thunk. “I heard you, you lying bastard,” he answered, stalking toward him. “First, you all but ignore Esmée. Then I hear you arranging to meet Contessa Bergonzi in secret.”

“I want to talk to her, yes,” Quin responded. “We’ve things to sort out, she and I. But again, that is none of your bloody business, is it?”

Alasdair grabbed him by the coat collar. “You are betrothed to a good and gentle girl,” he growled, dragging Quin to his feet. “And tonight you could barely spare her a glance. Humiliate her, hurt her, or even just mildly annoy her again, and so help me God, I will kill you.”

“Oh, sod off, Alasdair! This is beyond the pale.”

From the sofa, Merrick made a sound of disgust. “Need I remind you two addlepates that this house is full of guests and servants?”

Quin didn’t give a damn about his guests and servants. Instead, he wished Alasdair would just take a swing at him. Why wait for Chalk Farm? He wanted desperately to pound the living hell out of something, and he was growing increasingly indiscriminate about who or what that something might be. Roughly, Quin shoved back.

Alasdair planted five fingertips in Quin’s chest. “Name your second, old chap.”

Merrick was on his feet now, wedging an arm between them. “Oh, for God’s sake!” he said. “Alasdair, you are acting like a loutish schoolboy.”

“Aye, that I am,” said Alasdair, giving Quin a hearty push with both hands. “And perhaps I’ll just black his eye now to make him mindful of my shortcoming, eh?”

Quin’s every nerve was on edge. He shoved Alasdair back. “Have at it, then, you thickheaded Scot!” he growled. “If you wanted Esmée Hamilton, why the hell didn’t you marry her?”

At that, something in Alasdair seemed to snap. He thrust Merrick aside and had Quin by the throat before he knew it. Somehow, Quin shoved him away, got an arm back, and swung. The blow caught Alasdair beneath the chin, snapping his head back.


“Oh, for God’s sake, you fools!” Merrick was still trying to push them apart.

Bloodlust surged through Quin then, hot and compelling. He drew back again, swinging for all he was worth. It was a solid uppercut to the left jaw, which sent Alasdair reeling. He hitched up against one of the high-backed chairs, arms wheeling. Deftly, Merrick snatched a vase of tulips from his path. Alasdair righted himself and came at Quin again.

Another exchange of blows, and somehow, Alasdair got his arms round Quin’s waist, hauling him into the floor. The fistfight was reduced to schoolboy wrestling, including a great deal of grunting, flailing, and kicking. Over and over they tumbled, like bad-tempered curs after a bread scrap.

Somehow, Quin got Alasdair by his cravat and tried to bloody his nose by pounding his head on the carpet. Alasdair responded with a ruthless jerk of his knee, nearly rendering the debate over Quin’s marriage moot. Quin yelped with pain, and Alasdair scrabbled to his feet.

“You son of a bitch!” Quin caught him by the ankle and managed to pull off one of Alasdair’s shoes. Alasdair was hopping about for balance when Merrick burst into laughter and fell back onto the sofa, still holding the tulips.

Quin leapt up, hurled the shoe toward the fire, and went after Alasdair. He backed him up against the dictionary stand, sending it crashing. Merrick, who was getting up from the sofa, tripped over the book. Alasdair tried to seize the moment, and let fly a lame left hook, boxing Quin’s ear.

“Ouch, damn you!” he said, just before Alasdair came after him again, both fists swinging.

Finally, Merrick got an arm round his elder brother’s waist and dragged him away. “Enough, gentlemen!” he ordered. “This is pathetic. Quin, go up to bed.”

“No.”

Merrick’s eyes flashed. “If the two of you wish to beat one another to a bloody pulp, Quin, do it tomorrow,” he ordered. “And for God’s sake, do it where your servants won’t be listening.”

“I think we ought to finish it here and now!” Alasdair growled.

“Oh, aye, and you profess such concern for Miss Hamilton’s welfare!” said Merrick sarcastically. “How typical of you, Alasdair! This ugly little set-to will stir more gossip and do her more harm than anything Quin has done tonight.”

Alasdair’s face flooded with color at that. The fight went out of Quin. Merrick let his brother go. Alasdair jerked at his lapels as if to neaten his coat, but he looked beaten.

“The two of you are squabbling like children over nothing but pride,” said Merrick accusingly. “Never in my life have I seen such a sorry excuse of a fight between ostensibly grown men. And it leaves me to wonder if either of you give a damn about Miss Hamilton.”

Quin felt suddenly ashamed. The awful truth was, he wasn’t fighting over Miss Hamilton. Indeed, he was not at all sure what he was so angry about. Ill luck? Ill timing? Certainly, it had little to do with Alasdair.

“You are quite right, Merrick,” he quietly admitted. “Alasdair, you have been a complete ass tonight, but I daresay I have topped you, and for that, I apologize.”

“Apology accepted,” Alasdair gritted. “And go bugger yourself.”

Quin bowed stiffly. Good God, his jaw hurt. “Gentlemen, I shall say good night,” he managed. “Please make yourselves at home.”

Merrick had replaced the tulips, righted the dictionary, and found his abandoned brandy, which he now polished off in one toss. “I believe I will join you, old chap,” he said, setting the empty glass on the sideboard. “Alasdair, I’d suggest you do the same. Neither of you are fit company for civilized society tonight.”

“I want another drink,” his brother snapped.

Merrick just shook his head. They went quietly up the stairs, Quin and Merrick, neither speaking. There seemed nothing left to say. It had been the second-worst day of Quin’s life, and he would be glad to see the end of it. With a curt good night to Merrick, he entered his bedchamber, stripped off his clothes, and hurled them across a chair. Blevins could deal with them tomorrow.

But the elegant, half-tester bed looked very large and very empty when he drew back the covers. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and tried to envision Esmée beside him, naked and waiting. Tried to imagine what it would be like to make love to her, this young woman who was to be his wife. But tonight, it seemed an oddly bizarre notion, like trying to have sex with a dainty china doll. Mere days ago, he had been almost eager to bed the girl. Tonight, he had barely been able to look her in the eyes. What had changed?

It was Viviana. The bad taste her reappearance had left in his mouth. She had come back, and at a most inopportune time.

Well, it was a free country, he supposed. Perhaps he had overreacted. Nine long years had passed, and he was well beyond the bitterness. Why had he demanded to see her again? What could they possibly have to discuss after all this time? He had meant it when he had said he wouldn’t have her if she crawled back on her knees.

But Viviana had looked disinclined to go anywhere on her knees. She had looked as prideful and as spiteful as ever. Certainly she did not look like the kind of woman who would ever beg anyone for anything. Indeed, the one thing she had most wanted—a wealthy, titled husband—she had never begged for. Oh, she had asked him to marry her. Once. He had said no, and that had been the end of it. Viviana had promptly exercised her prerogative to move on to greener pastures. And her Italian count had been very verdant indeed.

Quin had been angry at first, yes. And terribly hurt, more than he had ever admitted to anyone. It had taken him a long while to admit that Viviana’s decision had been for the best. It had been time, really, for their relationship to end. He had been growing increasingly discontent with his secret mistress. And the word mistress was perhaps an overstatement. The truth was, he had paid Viviana’s rent—after he’d badgered her out of her respectable, but not very private, ladies’ lodging house—and he had given her gifts of jewelry, which she had never asked for and had promptly sold.

He now understood that that was not quite the same thing as employing a practiced courtesan, a far more costly affair. But then he had been young and foolish.

Yes, perhaps tonight he had simply overreacted. Seeing her again, in her sumptuous red silk gown, with that black cashmere shawl which kept sliding to the crooks of her elbows almost invitingly—yes, all of it had hurled him back nine years in a mere instant.

It was astonishing how little she had changed. She had even worn those ever-present rubies dangling from her ears. Strikingly tall and stunningly voluptuous, Viviana had worn her raven hair drawn back in its usual sleek, unfashionably formal arrangement, and carried herself, as always, with a queenly grace. But her face—something about it had changed somehow. It had seemed to possess just a shade less elegance, but a great deal more strength.

In the past, Viviana had always put him in mind of some Renaissance madonna, come to life from an artist’s altarpiece. Vibrantly hued, yet pure and sacrosanct. Above his, or anyone else’s, touch. But all that had been an illusion. Anyone with enough money could touch Viviana. If her affaire with Quin did not prove that much, her marriage to Conte Gianpiero Bergonzi di Vicenza certainly did. Bergonzi was a man known for his wealth and his power and his worship of beautiful things—but never had he been known for his benevolence. Perhaps he and Viviana had deserved one another.


Or perhaps she had regretted her choice.

For a moment, he considered it. Had Viviana loved her husband? Had he enticed her back to Venice to be with him? Or had Quin simply driven her away? Well. He would never know, would he? Certainly he was not going to ask her, no matter how much the question ate at him. Feeling suddenly weighed down by it all, Quin bowed his head, closed his eyes, and quietly cursed beneath his breath.



The carriage ride back to Lord Chesley’s country house was uneventful. The gentlemen amused themselves by rattling on about the Guadagnini cello. Musically, Viviana did not favor the cello, so she sat quietly in her corner, peering out into the moonlit gloom of the countryside and considering the thing which Quin Hewitt had demanded. She could have refused him, of course. She was not afraid of him. Not really. The trouble was, simple curiosity was overcoming her better judgment.

“Chesley,” she said when the conversation lulled, “I should like to go riding tomorrow.”

“By all means, my dear,” said her host.

Lord Digleby brightened. “I shall accompany you, Contessa,” he said. “I adore a brisk autumn ride.”

Viviana tried to look grateful. “Grazie, Lord Digleby, but I mean to go very early,” she said. “I wish to see the sunrise and should not want to disturb you.”

Lord Digleby did not look like the sort of fellow who rose before dawn. “Another time, then?” he suggested, covering a yawn. “I shall need my rest, I am sure. Your father and I mean to begin work on Nel Pomeriggio in earnest tomorrow.”

“And you must put the opera first, by all means,” said Viviana, turning to her host. “Chesley, I believe I should like to ride in that little wood to the east of the house. Do I understand you have a bridle path there?”

“How will you see the sunrise through all the trees, Contessa?” asked Digleby innocently.

Viviana smiled tightly. “First I shall watch the sunrise. Then I shall ride in the wood.”

“There are bridle paths everywhere, my dear,” said Chesley with a vague wave of his hand. “Just avoid the one that branches due north, or you’ll be halfway to Wendover before you see another living soul. Ask one of the grooms to direct you.”

Once inside the house, Viviana kissed her father, then left the gentlemen in the drawing room with a bottle of porto and a fistful of fine cheroots. Her father looked content and comfortable. That was reassuring.

Upstairs, Viviana checked on the children, all of whom slept soundly. As usual, Cerelia had pushed all her bedcovers onto the floor and lay curled in a tight ball. She was cold now, of course. After creeping quietly round the bed, Viviana shook out the covers and gently replaced them. As she bent over to tuck the counterpane round the child’s neck, she noticed the faint glint of metal. With a rueful smile, she gently lifted the gold chain away. Cerelia did not stir. Viviana dropped the weight of it into her pocket, then set the backs of her fingers to the girl’s check.

She marveled at the warmth and the softness. Cerelia was such a lovely child, inside and out. But Cerelia was not her favorite. No, not exactly that. Viviana loved all her children with an equal ferocity. And yet Cerelia was special to her in a way she could not quite explain, even to herself.

She wondered if she had made a mistake in bringing the children to England. The choice had torn at her heart. Stay with her children in Venice and leave her father to travel alone? Or surrender them to the care of servants whilst she followed him to England? Neither alternative had been acceptable. And so Viviana had compromised, just as she had been doing all of her life.

She wondered how long it would be before the children became bored with the cold English countryside. At present, the gardens and the surrounding woodlands were new and exhilarating. But soon they would wish for the familiar, and for playmates, too, no doubt. Lady Alice Melville and her brood would not likely be calling now. Quin would surely put a stop to that. He probably did not consider the children of an Italian opera singer fit companions for his fine English family.

Impulsively, Viviana went round the room, kissing each child on the cheek. Nicolo had his thumb in his mouth again. Gently she pulled it out. The boy slept on. Felise stirred faintly, but did not awaken. They were beautiful, her children. And she dared anyone to suggest otherwise within her hearing.

“Buona notte, my darlings,” she whispered, pulling the door shut.

Once inside her own bedchamber, Viviana did not ring for her maid. Instead, after tucking Cerelia’s necklace safely away, she stirred up the fire and lit the branch of candles atop the mantel. Then slowly she undressed before the gilt cheval glass, dropping her clothes into puddles of black and red across the floor and studying her body as it was revealed. It had been a long time since she had studied her figure naked. It had not seemed to matter very much. She was not perfectly sure why she bothered to look now.

At last, the final undergarment fell away, leaving Viviana in nothing but her black silk stockings. She let her gaze run slowly up her body. No man had seen her thus since Gianpiero’s death. And for the last six years of their marriage, they had more or less lived emotionally apart; separate people living separate lives beneath one roof. But no matter how she begged, Gianpiero had refused to let her leave him. He had demanded his son. His heir. She had owed him that, she supposed. And so she had suffered his coming to her bed in the dark, and forcibly joining his body to hers. She had suffered other things, too. Things she would sooner not remember. Perhaps it was what she deserved. Perhaps it was the price one paid for marrying a man one did not—and could not—love.

Calmly, almost detached, Viviana slid her hands beneath her breasts and lifted them as she watched herself in the mirror. Assuredly, the years had changed her. But she was still a beautiful woman. Wasn’t she? Countless men had told her so. But when one was wealthy, one could never be sure of sincerity. Since Gianpiero’s death, she had received more proposals, both honorable and otherwise, than she could count. Some of them had even seemed heartfelt. Gaspard had merely been the most recent.

But naked in the candlelight, the truth was plain to Viviana. She was thirty-three years old. She had borne three children. And it showed. Yes, she was still a beautiful woman. But she would never again be the woman she had been nine years ago. Viviana turned from the mirror, picked up her nightdress from the chair, and swiftly drew it on. She did not like looking at the imperfections time had wrought.

She went to the dressing table and poured herself half a glass of Barolo from the decanter she kept at hand. Then she reconsidered and filled it to the brim. Slowly, she sipped it, and recalled the evening’s events. It had been almost cathartic to see Quin Hewitt tonight, once the initial shock was over. She had rather enjoyed their little spat, loath though she was to admit it. They had always quarreled passionately—and made love passionately, too. But he was in her past. Tonight had served as a harsh reminder of that. And really, what did she care? She was no longer that rash, romantic young woman.

In the years since leaving him, her whole existence had changed. Viviana had married into the pinnacle of Venetian aristocracy. She had borne three beautiful children. She had brought half of Europe’s royalty to tears with her voice and her passion; that same passion with which she had once loved. And she had learnt too well that opera was a better and far safer outlet for that sort of unrestrained emotion.


And now the mighty Lord Wynwood wished to speak with her. Well, she would go to his study at eight o’clock tomorrow, just as he had demanded. Not because she was afraid of him. She was not. She was just inordinately curious. She really did not believe Quin would tell her father any of the ugly truths he had threatened her with. He would realize soon enough that Viviana meant him no ill. Indeed, he would soon forget she was nearby, for she would take great pains to stay out of his way—after she satisfied her curiosity in this one thing.

Viviana slid between the cool bedsheets, her wine in hand, and considered again Quin’s ugly accusation. He believed she had planned their meeting tonight. He was wrong—but perhaps not entirely so. It galled her to admit the truth. But intuitively, she must have been hoping to see him, or at least to hear news of him. There was no other answer, if she were honest with herself. She had had one whole day in which to ask Chesley which of his sisters they would be visiting. And yet, she had not done so. Chesley would have easily released her from her obligation. Or she could have pleaded a headache at the last moment.

Instead she had learnt something she would as soon not have known. That her old love—her only love—was newly betrothed, and to a girl who was at least a dozen years younger than Viviana. A lovely young thing, fresh from the country, just as he had always said. An heiress who wore pearls in her hair. A pale, pretty child-bride whose breasts were still small and high, and whose belly did not yet bear the marks of childbearing.

It was too much to think about. Viviana drained her wine, set the glass on the night table, and tried not to cry. It really was quite lowering to have such horrid, horrid emotions. She really had expected more grace and more pride from herself. Why? And, per amor di Dio, why now? Never once had Viviana mourned her lost youth. And yet now she wanted to weep for it.