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.”