Later, when he considered it, he realized that he had, in fact, seen very little. There had been a flash of color as the woman turned, skirts of deep burgundy, jewel-like against the black velvet of her swirling cloak. A black hat set almost flirtatiously to one side, and bountiful black ribbons tied at the chin, lifting lightly in the breeze. That unmistakably proud set of her shoulders. Those slashing black eyebrows. The way she carried herself, like the haughtiest queen, stepping up into the carriage as if she owned the world.
Her face, though—yes, there was something different about her face. She did not look the same. The nose…it was not quite right. And yet, he would have known her anywhere, even had a thousand years passed. It was Viviana Alessandri. Oh, yes. And still his breath would not come, and his heart would not leave his throat.
By the late afternoon, the mantel clock in Lord Chesley’s Belgravia town house was running ten minutes slow, the pendulum’s doleful
tock-tock-tock
echoing hollowly, as if it might tick its last at any moment. The atmosphere inside the parlor was oddly subdued, too. With a neatening rattle, Chesley laid aside his newspaper and studied his lone companion.
“I think I shall go upstairs, Vivie, and have a nap before dinner,” he said, rising. “One never adequately anticipates the wear and tear of travel, does one?”
Viviana looked up from her sheaf of roughly sketched notes and music, and smiled at her host.
“Si,
it is trying, my lord,” she agreed. “Even little Nicolo was exhausted yesterday. A remarkable thing indeed.”
Chesley strolled toward the windows which overlooked the arboreal glory of Hans Place. “What do you wish to do tonight, Vivie?” he asked musingly. “Shall we look up Digleby, and go watch the rehearsals for
Fidelio?
Or—wait, I know the very thing! We could take the children to Astley’s Amphitheatre!”
Her eyes lit for a moment. “But Nicolo is too small,
no?”
“Nonsense,” said Chesley. “He’ll have a lovely time.”
Viviana pushed away her cold cup of tea. She had promised herself she would not go about in London any more than was absolutely necessary. One never knew who one might run into. But at Astley’s? No, surely not. Still, it had been a long trip from Venice to London.
“How kind you are, Chesley, to think of my children,” she answered, coming to her feet. “But perhaps we ought simply to have a quiet evening here? I fear
Papà
may have overtaxed himself with the walk from St. James. And now he is upstairs romping with Nicolo.”
“But of course, my dear,” said the earl. “I sometimes forget just how old Umberto is now.”
“Si,
as does he,” Viviana returned.
Chesley closed the distance between them, and took her hands in his. “Vivie, my dear, are you perfectly all right?” he asked. “You have not seemed yourself these last two days. Was it the travel? Have I asked too much of you, in pleading for this visit to England?”
She smiled, and squeezed his hands. “I
wished
to come,” she said, lying unabashedly. “I wished to be away from Venice for a while.”
Chesley laughed, and lifted her hands in his, as if he might dance her round the room. “Oh, indeed! Why stay in Venice when one can winter in England!” he said. “I’m sure it must be all the rage. No, admit it, Vivie. You wished to leave your French marquis cooling his heels, did you not? Poor devil! What was this one’s name?”
“Gaspard.”
“Yes, alas, poor Gaspard!” said Chesley.
Viviana grinned. “Gaspard had become tiresome,” she admitted. “I shall not miss him.”
Chesley’s expression sobered. “But spring is far away, my dear,” he said. “And Buckinghamshire will be very cold come January. I am feeling a little guilty for having asked so much of you and Signor Alessandri.”
“You must know, Chesley, that I cannot bear to let
Papà
from my sight,” said Viviana. “And in truth, the notion of collaborating on this opera has rejuvenated him. I think he was not so happy in his retirement.”
Chesley looked down at the sheaf of paper strewn across the tea table. “Well, what do you think, my dear, of young Digleby’s libretto? Will it challenge your father?”
Viviana lifted one shoulder, an almost Gallic gesture.
“Si,
I believe so,” she said. “Just enough. But already, I have a concern.”
“What is it, my dear?” said the earl. “I value your opinion.”
“Well, this piece—
Nel Pomeriggio—
I like it,” she said slowly. “The title is suggestive.
In the Afternoon.
It makes one wonder what the characters will get up to, does it not?”
“Yes, yes, go on.”
Viviana was nodding slowly to herself. “And admittedly, it has elements which are delightfully witty,” she went on. “So I believe we would be better served by opening something like this in Paris, at the Opéra-Comique, perhaps? But not La Scala, which Lord Digleby seems to have set his heart on.”
“He wishes far more to open as a success,” said Chesley dryly. “Your point is well made, my dear. I will explain to him how the world of bel canto opera works. He also wishes the character of Maria to have five arias. Is it too much, do you think?”
Viviana shook her head. “
Papà
will make it work,” she said confidently. “But you will need a strong soprano for the role.”
Lord Chesley tweaked her on the chin as if she were a mere child. “Yes, I know that, dear Vivie,” he admitted. “You did not think you were invited simply for your looks, did you?”
Viviana felt a moment of panic. “Oh, no, I cannot!” she said, sitting back down again. “Oh, Chesley, I cannot do this for you. Nicolo is yet too young, and—I—I—”
“Nicolo is four years old now,” Chesley interjected. “And you have sung with only two productions in all that time.”
“Yes, but at home in Venice,” she retorted. “Not Paris, nor even Milan.”
“And nothing at all in the last two years.”
Viviana looked away, her eyes staring into the depths of the room. She had not the heart to tell Chesley the truth—or her fears. “I had to mourn my husband,” she said quietly. “I owed him that much, did I not?”
The earl shook his head. “Don’t let your pipes rust, my girl,” he warned. “Besides, this production is months away.”
Viviana tossed a longing look at the untidy libretto. “Well, we shall see what
Papà
comes up with,” she said. “But I daresay it will be something very clever and very irresistible, and I shall wish very desperately to neglect my children, and forget poor Gaspard altogether.”
“If you ask me, Gaspard’s fate is already sealed,” said Chesley dryly. “But you, neglecting your children? Not in a thousand years.”
Just then, a terrible clamor arose in the direction of the entrance hall. The children came thundering down the steps, their high-pitched shrieks echoing in the stairwell. Two little girls burst into the parlor in a gale of pastel and ruffles, followed by Signor Alessandri, who carried a small boy perched upon his stooped shoulders.
“Papà!”
Viviana started from her chair.
“Essere attento!”
“Oh, he is fine, Viviana,” said the old man.
“I am quite sure
he
is!” she returned. “What of you?”
“Go! Go!” cried the boy, spurring his grandfather with his heels. “Go,
Nonno!”
Go
was his newest English word. Viviana tried to scowl, but failed.
“Vieni qui,
Nicolo!” she said, lifting the boy down.
The girls were giggling at one another. “Mamma, Lord Chesley has a big swine!” said the smaller of the two.
“A
pig,
Felise,” corrected her sister. “A big, hairy one—but it is…it is
deceased.”
“Ah,
dead
pig, is it?” Viviana set Nicolo on her hip, and lifted one brow. “And this creature is upstairs? I wondered what was causing all the noise.”
“No, no!” Signor Alessandri laughed. “It is a—how you say—a taxidermy. A wild boar.”
Chesley looked almost embarrassed. “A sporting trophy from my youth,” he confessed. “I went out to Africa with a group of chaps to shoot at things. This one was old, I daresay, and simply died of shock upon seeing such a pack of silly fribbles. But I had him stuffed. I was quite proud of it for a time.”
“We rode it, Mamma,” said the eldest girl.
“Cerelia!”
“She
did,” said Felise. “I was afraid. It has big yellow teeth.”
“Tusks, Felise,” said her sister, with an air of superiority. “They are not teeth.”
Nicolo was squirming now. Viviana was straining to keep a safe grip on the boy.
Lord Chesley caught her gaze, and grinned. “All fagged out, is he, Vivie?”
Viviana put the boy down and looked at the earl with chagrin in her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she said. “The children are not used to being kept to the schoolroom. They will do better, I promise, when we reach Hill Court.”
“Nonsense!” said Chesley. “Let them have the run of the house, I say.”
Viviana threw up a staying hand. “Oh,
Dio,
I beg you!” she said. “My nerves will not bear it. You will have not so much as a decent bonbon dish remaining if you let Nicolo loose.”
Chesley looked on at the children indulgently. “Well, another few days of business here in town, then we’ll be on our way,” he said. “We can all run loose in the country.”
A noise drew Viviana’s eyes to the tea table. Nicolo had seen her cold tea and snatched up the fine Sèvres cup as if to drink it. “No!” she cried, prying it from his still-plump fingers. “Nicolo, no!”
The boy screwed up his face and began wailing. At once, Lord Chesley went down on one knee. “Nicolo, do you like horses?” he asked. “Felise, Cerelia, what of you?”
Nicolo closed his mouth.
“Hor-zees,”
he echoed, clearly not comprehending.
“I like horses,” said Felise. “I’m to have a pony soon.”
“Yes,” said her mother.
“If
you are good.”
“I already know how to ride on a horse,” said Cerelia proudly.
Lord Chesley made a face of amazement. “Yes, but can you ride standing up, Cerelia?” he asked. “With no saddle?”
The girls’ eyes were wide now.
From his position on the floor, Chesley flicked a glance up at Viviana. “My dear, I think I have finalized our plans for the evening,” he said apologetically. “Will you indulge me?”
Viviana managed a smile. “Yes, of course.”
Chesley pinched Nicolo’s nose. “Come here, young man,” he said in very bad Italian. “I have a little treat for you. Have you ever heard of a place called Astley’s Amphitheatre?
In which Lord Wynwood makes a new Friend.
Q
uin dressed for his evening’s engagement with a measure of reluctance. His new life as a soon-to-be-reformed rake was not without its challenges, he thought, lifting his arms so that his valet might put on his shirt. He did not care for this business of being at the beck and call of a pack of females; specifically, his mother, and his fiancée’s aunt.
As to his fiancée herself, Esmée seemed unaffected by all the uproar related to their engagement. Indeed, she did not seem to mind whether they sat quietly at home playing piquet or dressed up in their finest and trotted off to dine with the Queen. It was all the same to her, so far as he could tell.
But his mother was in rapture over the whole affair and insisting on all manner of things which seemed unreasonable. Indeed, it was all he could do to restrain her from haring off to Lady Tatton’s to plan the wedding breakfast, as if the ceremony were to take place next week instead of next spring, as he and Esmée had agreed.
In the past, he had simply ignored his mother’s imprecations to turn from his wicked ways and settle down. Indeed, he had seen very little of his mother at all. But after his father’s death, he had been compelled to see a vast deal of her, much of the time spent with her clinging to his arm and wailing over her unexpected widowhood.
Perhaps it was indicative of a hidden weakness in his character, but his mother’s tears Quin could not bear. So, in keeping with the duties of a belatedly good son and a newly betrothed gentleman, tonight he was to take Esmée and Lady Tatton out for yet another evening of facile entertainment.
Already he’d been wined, dined, theater’ed, and soirée’ed to within an inch of his life. And he had the strangest impression that Esmée was as almost as indifferent to all of it as he was. Still, as his mother was ever fond of saying, appearances mattered. A gentleman engaged to be married was expected to squire his bride-to-be out and about at every opportunity.
Suddenly, he would have given his right arm to stay at home alone tonight. “That will do, Blevins,” he said to his valet impatiently.
“What of your neckcloth, sir? And your waistcoat?”
Quin waved a hand. “I shall finish,” he returned. “Thank you. You are excused until this evening.”
Blevins gave a subservient nod and made himself scarce. The poor devil knew enough to comprehend when his master was in a vile mood, something which did not, thank God, occur often.
Quin prided himself on being an even-tempered sort. Still, given his dissolute habits, there was the occasional unpleasant morning after, which made a chap feel snappish. And there had been rare instances over the years when his mother had actually managed to run him to ground so that she might subject him to a long and querulous harangue about wasting his life. Certainly that did nothing to improve upon one’s mood. Other than that, he had long ago decided there was little on this earth worth getting riled over.
So why was he feeling so apprehensive of late? He was to be married, and to a young woman whom he liked very much. He was fortunate to have found someone both beautiful and sensible. Someone who possessed a remarkable strength of character. Someone who could make him laugh. But Quin was not fool enough to think he was in love, or that Esmée Hamilton was the only woman in the world for him.
No, Quin had learnt the hard way that there was always another woman to be had. His life had long been awash in them. Women, it seemed, found him attractive. At least, that was what they often told him, right before making him an offer they thought he could not refuse.
As an awkward young man, he had not fully appreciated the power which his looks, wealth, and rank bestowed upon him. As a man grown, he understood it all too well. And he had long ago decided that it was far better simply to pay for his pleasure, as any man might. He preferred that no one harbor any illusions about the relationship—and
no one
included himself.
Oh, Devellyn might joke about it, but there was much to be said for the simplicity of a clean cash transaction. That way, there was no misunderstanding. No expectation. And no delusive hope. That, too, was something he had long believed he could live without. Until, that was, he’d met Esmée. He had liked her the moment he set eyes on the little Scottish spitfire. Perhaps that was the very problem? Perhaps he liked his affianced bride just a little too well. Perhaps he was beginning to hope again. That was most unwise. Because this afternoon…oh, Christ Jesus. He would not think of it.
Almost without realizing it, Quin went to the small writing desk between his windows and began to dig through the bottom drawer for his old gilt snuffbox. He had not seen it in an age. He found it wedged between a pair of old inkpots, underneath a pile of truly bad poetry. He really did need to pitch that drivel heap into the next good fire, he mused as he shuffled through it, before someone read it and got a good laugh at his expense.
Instead, he tossed the pile of paper back, seized the snuffbox, and thumbed it open. Inside was not just a lock of hair, but an entire ringlet; a silky black spiral several inches long. Gently, Quin wrapped it round his index finger as he had done perhaps two or three times a day in the beginning. But not so often of late. And not at all, surprisingly, since meeting Esmée. Was that, perhaps, the definition of hope?
Impassively, he studied it in the lamplight. He realized with a measure of relief that it stirred nothing in his heart now. The beautiful ringlet was…just a lock of hair. A trifling bit of sentiment, like his cache of bad poetry. A reminder of what a fool a man could be, were he not careful. But Quin had become very, very careful. Ah, yes. Despite the shock he had received in Piccadilly, his heart had come, it seemed, full circle.
Once, however, this hidden treasure had meant the world to him. But he had been so young then; barely past his teens, in fact, when he had fallen so helplessly in love, and with a woman who had not the time to spare him so much as a passing glance. But he had worn her down, more fool he. And he had stolen the silken ringlet from the floor of her dressing room on a night which was forever fixed in his memory. Yes, he had taken it as a sign of hope.
Dimly, he became aware of the longcase clock in the downstairs hall mournfully sounding the hour. A very late hour. Swiftly, he replaced the lock of hair, and shoved the drawer shut. It was time to fetch Esmée. Time to think only of the future. He drew on his freshly starched neckcloth and began meticulously to tie it.
The theater, when they arrived, was rapidly filling. He escorted the ladies to their seats, which were situated in one of the much-coveted boxes on the lowest level of the ring, so that they would have an excellent view. But before the program had even started, Lady Tatton began to draw her shawl a little closer and tug at her gloves, her teeth almost chattering as she did so.
Twice Quin offered his coat, and twice her ladyship refused it, looking more miserable by the minute. Esmée tried to maintain a cheerful attitude. “I wonder if they will have clowns tonight?” she remarked. “I have never seen a real one, you know. I shall likely be all agog and embarrass you both quite thoroughly.”
Wynwood reached out and gratefully squeezed her hand. He began to talk of the various bits of entertainment they were to see, much to Esmée’s delight. But no line of conversation would dissuade her ladyship from her discomfort.
“I wonder, Wynwood,” she finally said, “if we mightn’t be warmer up a little higher? And perhaps safer, too. I have heard the horses’ hooves often throw sawdust in one’s face, and the clowns perhaps throw worse.”
Quin came at once to his feet. “I shall find someone, ma’am, and enquire as to whether we might be moved.”
But finding someone was no simple affair. Astley’s Amphitheatre was not precisely a luxurious entertainment. Instead, it was a place where the
ton
actually deigned to rub elbows with lesser mortals for the sake of an hour or two of shamelessly unrefined amusement. But Esmée had very much wished to come. And during the whole of their betrothal, it was the only thing Esmée had actually asked him for.
Lady Tatton, however, was clearly having second thoughts about rubbing her elbows against anyone below the rank of baronet. She would have to be reseated, or they would know no peace. Quin went out and made his way along the rear of the circle of stalls, seeing no one official in the surging crowd. Farther around the circle, however, were narrow corridors leading to stage doors and dressing chambers. Surely they were attended by someone?
He was debating returning to the main entrance when he spied a lovely little acrobat dawdling near one of the corridors ahead. Though her back was turned to him, her costume of feathers, pink satin, and frothy netting revealed a wealth of feminine curves, and Quin decided she was the perfect person to speak to. Perhaps she would even know how to go about getting reseated.
But when he touched her lightly on the shoulder, and she half turned toward him, he was shocked to see that the gentleman she was speaking with was Lord Chesley. His uncle was standing just inside the corridor, and oddly, he had a child by the hand.
“Well, Quin, my boy!” said Chesley in a tone of amiable surprise. “You, here? At
Astley’s?”
Quin managed a faint smile. “It is a long story.”
“Hmm,” said his uncle. “I have been too long on the Continent, I see.” Hastily, his uncle introduced the pretty acrobat as Nadia, who had a surname which was unpronounceable.
Alas, Nadia spoke little English fluently, save for that which was said with her eyes, now firmly fixed on Quin. When he did not return her gaze, she turned to touch the little girl affectionately on the tip of her nose, muttering something he could not understand, then began to saunter away. Still, one could scarcely miss the inviting glance which she tossed over her shoulder as she departed.
“Ah, another conquest, my boy!” said Chesley good-humoredly. “But have a care with the riding master. I am afraid he is her husband.”
Quin was still observing Nadia’s snug little arse as she sauntered off and wondering if it would be worth the risk. Then he remembered Esmée. “No,” he said almost to himself. “I fancy not.”
“A wise choice,” said his uncle.
It was then that Quin remembered the child. Vaguely embarrassed, he turned back to his uncle. “And who have we here?” he asked, bending down to feign polite interest. “You have not introduced me.”
“This is my friend Lady Cerelia,” said his uncle. “She has traveled all the way from the Continent, and granted me the honor of squiring her to all the fashionable sights about town. Cerelia, my nephew, Quinten Hewitt, Lord Wynwood.”
“Hello,” said the girl. Her voice was shy but her curtsy was perfect.
“Charmed, Lady Cerelia,” said Quin, clicking his heels like some Continental dandy. He had long ago grown accustomed to his uncle’s habit of bringing home the strays and orphans of the artistic world, much as other men brought home lost dogs. Little Cerelia doubtless belonged to one of them.
Then the girl looked up at him again, truly
looked
at him, her dark blue eyes remarkably insightful for a child of so few years. There was a certain sadness, too, though her youthful features hid it well. And as he watched her, for a moment, it was as if time held suspended. Quin found his mind grappling for something he could not name. A question. A familiarity. Then Cerelia bubbled with laughter at a passing clown in bright orange trousers.
The strange moment was broken.
“Cerelia wished to meet one of the acrobats,” said his uncle. “She wishes to learn to ride on horseback whilst standing.”
“How very brave of you,” said Quin. “Did Nadia share her secrets?”
The girl nodded.
“Resina,”
she said, glancing up at Chesley as if for assistance. And for the first time, Quin realized that English was not her first language. “Nadia puts the—the—how do you say it, my lord?” she went on. “The tree juice which goes on the feet?”
“Resin,” said Lord Chesley. “I gather they rub the soles of their feet in something like pine tar.”
The girl wrinkled her nose, then giggled. Quin, too, found himself laughing. The child really was a taking thing, though she was just a slight slip of a girl. Quin was no judge in such matters, but he gathered she must be seven or eight years old. Her heavy, straight hair was not quite blond and not quite brown, like a shimmering shade of bronze, and she was dressed with an elegance which made it plain she was no ordinary English miss.
But the child was no business of his, and he was neglecting his duties. “Well, I must bid you good evening,” he said, nodded to them both in turn. “I am on a mission for an important lady.”
“I daresay,” said his uncle mordantly. “But I cannot imagine who.”
Quin gave a tight smile. “No, you cannot.”
“Ah, well! Enjoy the show, my boy!” said Chesley over his shoulder. He had taken the little girl by the hand again and was leading her away.
Quin lifted his hand, but said no more. He was still inexplicably fascinated by the child. Then, at the last possible instant, the girl turned round again.
“Piacere,
my Lord Wynwood,” she said, lifting one hand in good-bye.
“Addio!”
Piacere.
He wracked his brain.
A pleasure.
And suddenly, he knew.
Good God! He felt, for a moment, like a fool. How could he not have guessed? Damn his uncle to hell. That child was no ordinary girl. She was the daughter of Conte Gianpiero Bergonzi di Vicenza.
She was Viviana’s.
Quin watched them wade into the thinning crowd. For an instant, he was required to suppress the urge to call her back. To let him have a second look, in case he was mistaken. Oh, but it was all there, he thought, in the slant of the girl’s eyes and the angle of her cheekbones. The piercing way she had looked at him, with her head held at a slight tilt. And in the promise of beauty to come, already apparent in her face.
In the distance, she looked up at Chesley and smiled. Yes, it was the look of Viviana. More pale. More neutral. And so young. But Viviana nonetheless. He was quite certain it was Viviana he’d seen in Piccadilly. With her famous father, Signor Alessandri, no doubt. Why else would she have returned? She had taken what she wanted from England long ago, and Chesley worshiped Alessandri as only a patron of the arts can worship the creator of that which he lives for. Wholeheartedly. Without reservation. To Chesley, Alessandri had never written a wrong note. And Viviana had never sung one.