She had been a nobody when Chesley brought her to London. He had done it, he told Quin, as a favor to her father. Stellar sopranos were two a penny in Italy that year. Viviana had been sent to London to shine, and Chesley had made it happen. For well over a year, she had sung at His Majesty’s Theatre, graduating to the lead roles in a matter of months. The more senior members of the company had been astonished at her talent. Some, even envious. The
ton
had thrown roses at her feet.
But Quin had met her even before the envy or the roses. Yes, before she was anybody special, she had been his, at least in his mind. Of course, she had also been the daughter of the famous Alessandri, it was true. And she had been beautiful beyond words. But no one, least of all Quin, had realized the adulation she would shortly find.
Nonetheless, when Viviana was finished with London—and finished with him—she had turned her back on all of it, leaving as unexpectedly as she had come. She had abandoned him without so much as a fare-thee-well, returning to Italy to a newly adoring public, and to a brilliant marriage which had lent her the respectability that an opera singer, even the most famous amongst them, did not easily achieve.
The child and his uncle had melted away. Vaguely, Quin was aware that he was standing in the middle of Astley’s walkway, staring like a gudgeon into a crowd which was rapidly thinning. But he could think only of Viviana. Viviana, who had wanted only two things. She had wanted fame, and she had wanted a wellborn husband.
Her father, it seemed, had arranged both. In May, she had been in Quin’s bed, and by June, in the powerful Conte Bergonzi’s. Soon it was being whispered by her fellow sopranos that her reason for leaving Italy to begin with was simply to persuade Bergonzi to the altar. The rich and powerful
conte
had been her father’s patron for many years.
Viviana must have known him well. Perhaps she had long been enamored with him. Perhaps they had been lovers. Perhaps every time she had cried out in Quin’s embrace, she had been thinking of Bergonzi. For a time, the uncertainty of it had wracked him. It no longer did so. He dropped his gaze, and turned away.
He did not care how respectable Viviana was now. And he certainly did not care how pretty or how sad or how charming her daughter was. Indeed, what he
ought
to care about was just where the devil Lady Tatton could be happily seated. Already, the music inside the theater could be heard swelling to a cheerful, spirited overture. Quin shoved every thought of Viviana Alessandri out of his head, and went on about the business of being a dutiful fiancé.
In which Lady Alice is the Voice of reason.
T
he entourage which departed for the Earl of Chesley’s Buckinghamshire estate a few days later was truly impressive. Chesley and his latest candidate for symphonic sainthood, Lord Digleby Beresford, rode in the first carriage. Beresford was a composer of no small merit, but neither was he especially well known beyond London and Paris. And his roughly drafted libretto, just as Chesley had claimed, showed promise, too.
Viviana and her father followed in the second coach, whilst the children, their nurse, and the governess rode in the third. A fourth held the gentlemen’s valets and Viviana’s maid. Lastly came two baggage carts, one of them carrying Chesley’s wild boar, which the children had begged for. This was followed by a well-padded van containing Viviana’s harp and violin, as well as her father’s piano and his collection of stringed instruments. Her father would sooner leave Venice without his stockings and drawers than leave his musical instruments behind.
The trip was not long, but the weather had turned sharp. Pulling her black velvet cloak a little closer, Viviana looked beyond the carriage window at the bare trees and dormant pastures of an England she barely remembered, and wondered if she had made a mistake in returning. She really did not need this emotional upheaval. Not now. No, not ever.
But what choice had she in the matter? Allow her father travel so far alone? Lord Chesley had been a good friend to both of them. He had asked a favor, a very
small
favor, which her father had seized upon with an enthusiasm Viviana had not seen in some years. The great Signor Alessandri now possessed a newfound sense of purpose. Lord Digleby Beresford.
Chesley had singled Beresford out as yet another artist worthy of his benefaction. And when Beresford had confessed a desire to write an opera, Chesley asked Viviana’s father to help. Unfortunately, Beresford had two strikes against him. He had little experience with classic opera. And he was English. But Alessandri knew Beresford’s work and believed the project worth his while. Viviana believed it might keep him alive. And so she had packed up her trunks and her children and her life, such as it was, and traveled far to this place she’d no wish to think about, let alone visit.
By late afternoon, Viviana began to see the signposts for the little village of Arlington Green. Her father had fallen asleep some miles back, his wizened frame rocking gently against the upholstery as the carriage rumbled on. Viviana relaxed against the banquette and felt herself begin to unwind for the first time since disembarking at Southampton. She was relieved to have London behind her. She had been afraid of…well, running into
him
.
Yes, she who had learnt to fear nothing had feared seeing Quin Hewitt again. But she had not seen him. Indeed, she had barely left Chesley’s house. As to Quin, for all she knew, he had long ago removed to the country. Or died. Or married. Or some combination of all three.
No. Had he died, she would have known it on her next breath. There was a connection between them, she feared, which would reach beyond the grave. But almost certainly he had married his pale, flaxen-haired English miss by now. Well. She wished him happy. Certainly she did not wish him ill. And there was very little, in truth, that she blamed him for. For all his reckless ways and quick temper, Quin had never once lied to her. Instead, he had been painfully honest. And oh, how she had loved him.
She had met him, of course, through Lord Chesley. During her first fortnight in London, Quin had accompanied his uncle to a reception in honor of some French conductor whose name Viviana had long since forgotten. Chesley was trying to lend the boy a little polish, he quietly explained, since Quin had been isolated in the English countryside for much of his life, at the insistence of an overbearing father. Quin was enjoying the splendors—and the excesses—of London for the very first time. He had been but nineteen years old.
Viviana had been too busy trying to survive the splendor and excess of London to pay any great heed to Chesley’s nephew, beautiful though he was to look at. Life alone in London was daunting, and it was the first time she had traveled beyond Venice without her father’s protection. She had been trying very hard to play the suave Continental and to devote every spare moment to her work.
But Quin had dogged her steps for weeks on end. Viviana had been three years older and at least a decade more worldly-wise than he. At first, she had thought it vaguely amusing to be courted by one so young and so callow. But he had persisted in his attentions, pressing her with a near ruthlessness that belied both his age and his inexperience. And she could not say she had not wanted him. Oh, no. She had wanted him with an intensity which frightened her.
Only the thought of dishonoring her father and the sacrifices he had made for her had kept Viviana from giving in. But in the end, it had not mattered. In the end, Quin Hewitt had got what he wanted. And perhaps she had, too. She did not know. After all these years, she still did not know. Perhaps it had been worth it. Perhaps a few moments of unadulterated joy were all one could hope for on this earth.
On a sharp sigh, Viviana let her gaze drift to the window again, and resolved to think of something else. Something that mattered. Quin Hewitt did not. Whatever she had once felt for him had faded in the intervening years. She was not that woman any longer. Nothing about her was the same. She had had an astonishingly successful career. She had married and borne three children. She had been shaken to her very core, and survived it to come out stronger, inexorably altered in ways which no one else could possibly understand.
No, she would not think of that, either. She would think only of the things which mattered now. Her children. Her father. Her music.
At last they were entering the quaint little village of Arlington Green. The shops and houses were beautifully made of a mellow old stone, and set very close to the road. In the center of the village was a squat, steepled church, and opposite, an old stone market cross. Farther down the lane, Viviana could see a set of wide, magnificent gateposts made of marble, with a large gatehouse adjacent, but the carriages did not slow as she expected. Instead, the lead coachman whipped up his horses and went on another quarter mile beyond the village proper.
So Lord Chesley was not the only rich nobleman in these parts. Upon considering it, Viviana was not surprised. Hill Court was not Chesley’s seat, but rather, a winter retreat which his family had long favored over their stately pile far to the north. As it happened, this house was not far from the road, and within minutes, the coaches and carts were circling around the carriage drive. Servants swarmed from the small manor house to begin the process of unloading, herded along by a black-garbed butler, a very stately personage who looked to be at least a hundred and five. A tall, thin woman in housekeeper’s garb looked down from the top step.
The butler was introduced as Basham, the housekeeper as Mrs. Douglass. Dinner was to be served at half past seven, Basham announced once they were all inside. Lord Chesley and Mrs. Douglass lapsed into a conversation about the particulars of their stay. Viviana gave her father’s valet a look which meant he was to take the elderly man upstairs at once and insist he rest. The look was well understood. Her father was whisked away.
Miss Hevner, the governess, asked to be shown at once to the old schoolroom upstairs. Viviana soon followed her up. But she was just halfway up the steps with the children and Signora Rossi, their elderly nurse, when Chesley called out to her again. She set her hand on the banister and turned back.
“Basham says my sister’s giving a dinner party day after tomorrow,” said the earl dolefully. “Family and neighbors. A dashed dull business, I’m sure. Will you and Alessandri go, Vivie? It isn’t far, and my sister would be thrilled.”
Viviana gave him a hesitant smile.
“Si,
Chesley, if you wish it.”
“It would make it more bearable,” he admitted.
“Then it would be our great pleasure to accompany you.”
Chesley beamed up at her. “Well, we shan’t stay long, Vivie,” he said. “I promise.”
A few days after his strange trip to Astley’s Amphitheatre, Quin was in his study at Arlington Park going over some very dull accounts which Henry Herndon, his estate agent, had laid out for him. He had little enthusiasm for the task. Quin much preferred London to his country seat, though he did come and do his duty. And if he had to be in Buckinghamshire, he would rather spend his time up in Aylesbury, where he was not especially well known.
Last night he had passed a pleasant evening there at the Queen’s Head, where the cards were honest and the serving girls were not. The view from the taproom had been excellent—creamy cleavage and swaying hips as far as a fellow could see—and Quin was of a mind to go back again that night. He was not yet a married man. There were a few months of freedom still left to him. Perhaps he should enjoy it. And yet, at Arlington, he could not quite do so.
The trouble was, he thought, looking about his wood-paneled study, Arlington still felt as if it belonged to his father. As a young man, Quin had longed to see the world beyond Buckinghamshire, or at least go away to school. Instead, his father had given him a prosy curate for a tutor and an occasional week of shopping in London with his mother and Alice. Until Chesley had rescued him, Quin had felt almost imprisoned at Arlington. Now he simply felt like a usurper to the throne.
At least Henry Herndon was still in charge. Herndon had been the family’s agent for some fifteen years. Under his stewardship, the estate was more or less minting money, and the village and its environs had prospered as well. Quin was jotting out a reminder to give the agent a substantial raise come the new year when a soft knock sounded at his door.
“Come!” he cried.
His sister Alice stuck her head inside the door. She was wearing a deep blue habit which matched her eyes, and her color was high, as if she’d rouged her cheeks. “I am going to take a ride toward the village,” she said. “I wish to see Mr. Herndon’s new gristmill. Will you come?”
Quin had been meaning to have a look at the new mill. With a smile, he rose and came from behind the desk. “A fine notion, Alice,” he said, after kissing her lightly on the cheek. “Besides, I’ll gladly seize any excuse which gets me out of this study.”
Alice looked at him mischievously. “Mrs. Prater is in the poultry yard wringing the necks of some unlucky chickens,” she said. “I believe they will be attending your betrothal dinner tomorrow. You could always go and help with that, I daresay, if you are desperate?”
Quin grimaced. “Good God, I ought to knot your braids for that!”
Quin’s fear of chickens was a standing joke at Arlington Park, and Alice never let him forget it. As a small and overly curious little boy, he’d once sneaked into the poultry yard alone, only to get himself thoroughly flogged by a bad-tempered buff cockerel who took umbrage at Quin’s curiosity. Quin, being much doted upon by Mrs. Prater, ran squalling to the cook, who went promptly out into the yard, wrung the old devil’s neck, then served him up for supper.
Alice had laughter in her eyes as they left the study together. “I haven’t had braids, Quin, in a dozen years,” she said. “You will have to think of a better punishment.”
Quin linked his arm through hers and helped Alice up the small flight of stairs that led in the direction of the main corridor. “You are looking lovely today, Allie,” he said quietly. “You have put on weight, have you not?”
“No, it is just that I have put off my black,” she said. “Widow’s weeds make one look so gaunt, do they not?”
Lady Alice Melville was but two months out of mourning. After nine years of marriage, her husband had died suddenly, leaving Alice alone with three children, a heavy heart, and a large fortune. Theirs had been an arranged marriage, one which Alice had not wished for, but one which she had nonetheless made the most of. Quin did not think that Alice had loved her husband in any romantic sense, but she had respected him. Certainly she had grieved for him.
In the great hall, Quin left Alice just long enough to change into boots and breeches. They said little until their horses were saddled and they were well away from the house.
They took the scenic route to the village, along the main carriage drive. From time to time, they would leave the canopy of bare-branched trees, and a vista of muted green hills would appear, dotted with sheep or deer. It was still hard for Quin to believe that the responsibility for all of this now rested with him.
The sun was bright, but the air was cool, and the wind was already whipping strands of hair from Alice’s tidy arrangement. She was remarkably quiet. “You did not come home last night, Quin,” she finally remarked.
Quin shot her a sidelong glance. “No, I didn’t,” he answered. “What of it?”
Alice shrugged. “Mamma remarked on it, that is all,” she said. For a few moments, she said no more.
“Oh, God!” he finally said. “Go on, Allie. What?”
Alice seemed to falter. “Well, I just wonder…sometimes, Quin, I just wonder if you are ready to be married.”
He looked at her in mild exasperation. “No, I’m not,” he said. “And I am
not
married, am I? I hope I do not have to remind Mamma of that fact. It is a bit much to ask a man to be accountable to both a wife and a mother, when he is no longer a child and not yet a husband.”
Alice looked suitably chastised. They rode on in silence for perhaps half a mile. “I do like your Miss Hamilton, Quin,” she finally said. “She is beautiful, and wise, too, I believe.”
Quin wondered what his sister was getting at. “Yes, you met her in London, did you not?” he said. “I had forgotten you were in town.”
“Briefly, yes.” Alice reined her horse around a large puddle from last night’s storm. “I had business with John’s solicitors. Of course, Mother thought it the perfect opportunity to introduce me to Miss Hamilton. I collect she regards the young lady as something of a
coup.”