Two Little Lies (11 page)

But alas, they soon reached the last stretch. The fantasy was over. The old byre was nearing, and beyond it a bend which even Viviana dared not risk. Gently, she reined the gelding back on the downhill grade. He began to slow in obedience, but in that instant, Viviana caught a flash of movement to her left.

It was as if lightning struck. She was jerked violently right, the horse shying wildly, nearly pitching her from the saddle. But Viviana was an experienced rider. She regained her seat neatly and reined the gelding in, crooning soothingly at him. His sidestepping ended in a cloud of dust and a clatter of stones. The horse stood shuddering beneath her, his head tossing, his nostrils flared wide.

After slicking a hand down his neck, Viviana turned him in the roadbed and trotted back to see what the devil had set him off. She wished at once that she had not.

Lord Wynwood stood at the corner of the dilapidated building, reclining lazily against it, one boot propped back on the stone foundation. He was dressed for the country, in snug, buff-colored breeches, a coat of dark brown, and riding boots just a shade darker. She could still make out the weal across his cheek, though it looked like little more than a scratch now. Behind the barn, a big black horse tugged halfheartedly at the colorless grass.

Wynood held a yellow apple in one hand, half of it eaten. He appeared to be still chewing as his dark gaze shrewdly appraised her. Finally, he swallowed. “Well, Viviana,” he said dryly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Viviana’s heart was still pounding. “Why, how dare you!” she cried. “You—you did that deliberately!”

He tossed what was left of the apple to the black horse, and pushed away from the barn. “Did what deliberately?” he asked, approaching. “Made you go haring off like some bedlamite down a narrow country road? No, you imbue me with powers I do not possess, my dear.”

Viviana slid off her sidesaddle, and caught her reins in one hand. “Good God, Quinten, this is not funny,” she answered. “You spooked my horse! I could have been killed. Is that what you wish? Is that what would it would take to make you happy?”

He shot her a chiding look. “Viviana, you flushed a covey of grouse,” he returned. “Don’t ride so damned fast when you don’t know the terrain.”

Viviana felt her face heat.

“What, you didn’t see it?” he asked incredulously. “You don’t believe me?”

“I do not know,” she admitted. “What…what is that, a flush of grouse?”

He eyed her riding crop warily. “You frightened some birds in the weeds beyond the cottage,” he answered. “They burst into the air. Your horse saw them, Viviana, even if you did not.”

He was telling the truth, she realized. Her attention had been focused on the blind curve ahead and on getting her horse to slow. But she had seen something—a very indistinct something—from one corner of her eye as she passed.

Quin stepped closer, and lifted his hand.

Instinctively, she drew back.
“Non mi tocchi!”

The gelding took offense, nearly jerking the reins from her hand as he tossed his head and wheeled his hindquarters restlessly about.

“Put away the crop, Viviana,” said Quin, reaching again, more slowly. “I’ve learnt my lesson. What is this? A new Continental fashion?”

She was a tall woman, but Quin was far taller. She felt him tug on her hatpin, and lift the hat from her head. She felt surprisingly lighter, and turned in some embarrassment to see that her lost scarf dangled like a banner from her hatpin.

“You looked a sight, Vivie, with this flying out behind you.” Quin did not look up at her as he deftly disentangled the mess, but she could see the faint, familiar grin curving his mouth as he struggled. She could smell him, too; warm wool, perhaps a hint of whisky, and the clean tang of soap—bergamot, she was sure. It was her favorite scent in all the world, and she was a little shaken to realize he still wore it.

“There,” he said just as her knees began to weaken. “The pin is freed. You may put your muffler and hat back on.”

But when he lifted his gaze, he faltered. “Your hair,” he said. “It is…it is coming down.”

“Non importo,”
she answered, snatching her hat and slapping it back on. “I fix it later.
Grazie,
Lord Wynwood. I must be away.”

He caught her gently by the shoulder. “Viviana, I—” He stopped, and shook his head. “Contessa Bergonzi, I owe you an apology. Uncle Ches told me everything—why you are here, I mean. That it was all his doing. I was…I am just…well, I apologize.”

She surveyed him coldly.
“Si,
my lord, as well you should,” she returned. “And me, I should not have been there. That was my mistake.”

He dropped his hand, and smiled sourly. “I left you little choice.”

Viviana did not drop her gaze. “You are ten times a fool, my lord, if you believe that.”

He glanced at her oddly. “So my threat meant nothing to you?” he murmured. “Then why, pray, were you there?”

Still holding the gelding’s reins, Viviana stepped back a pace, then lifted one shoulder. “Perverse curiosity, perhaps.”

He held her gaze steadily, as if waiting to see if she would falter. Instead, she looked boldly back at him, and pretended she did not see the pain in his eyes. Yes, let him mourn for a lifetime the loss of his pretty fiancée. Viviana did not give a damn. She had not lived almost ten years of emptiness without learning how to harden her heart.

“You know that Esmée has jilted me?” he said. “Yes, I daresay my sister will have told you everything.”

Viviana had led the gelding to an old gatepost, now half-rotted away. “It is none of my concern, Wynwood,” she said. “I am not responsible for it. But I am sure your mother can yet find you a blue-blooded, flaxen-haired English miss.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Miss Hamilton is Scottish, and her hair is decidedly brown.”

“The bride of your dreams.” Viviana gave a muted smile. “Do you not remember? You once told me what she would be like.”

“You don’t know anything about my dreams, my dear, and you never did,” he said. But there was little anger in his tone.

Viviana stepped gingerly onto what was left of the post, and mounted unaided. Lord Wynwood did not offer to help. Instead, he looked up at her a little bleakly. She wished he would not do that. She wished he would come out and fight the fair fight over whatever it was that so angered him. She could see it, not just the bleakness, but the rage, too. How easily one recognized one’s own shortcomings in another. And, oh, how she wished to scream at him! How she longed for the merest excuse. But he said nothing.

Viviana spurred the gelding halfway around.
“Buona sera,
Lord Wynwood,” she answered. “I must be off.”

“Viviana, wait!”

She turned back.
“Si?”

“You took luncheon with my mother today, did you not? I hope…I hope that she was kind to you?”

“She was polite,” said Viviana. “Exceedingly polite.”

“Ah, I think I see.” His face softened slightly. “Viviana, how long do you mean to be here?”

She bristled. “Until Chesley no longer needs my father. Why?”

He shrugged, and dragged a hand through his hair, a young man’s gesture. Her heart lurched. Ah, she remembered it well.

“It behooves us, Viviana, to get along,” he finally said.

“You have been talking to your sister,” she remarked. “Fine, then. We will get along—if we see one another, which is not likely, is it?”

He did not answer. Instead, he offered up his hand. “Then let there be peace between us, Viviana,” he said. “We are too old now to make fools of ourselves.”

Viviana leaned down and shook it. His hand felt warm and strong, even through her glove. “Pax, Wynwood.”

Their hands slid apart. The touch was broken. Viviana straightened in her saddle and started to nudge her mount around. Suddenly, she noticed for the first time that the stone building was actually a small house—a cottage, he had called it. The gardens were overgrown, but the place must have looked charming at one time. The house had a cowshed attached to one side, and it was that which was collapsing.

But Quin was still looking at her, as if he had something more to say. “Viviana, you look…different.”

“It has been almost ten years, Quinten,” she said quietly. “Time alters us.”

“No, not like that,” he said. “Your nose, it—it isn’t quite the same. Is it?”

Instinctively, she touched the slight hump with her gloved forefinger. “This, you are asking?” she answered. “No, I fell down the steps. I broke it.”

“When?”

Again, she shrugged. “Two years past, perhaps,” she said vaguely. “Awkward of me, was it not? But now my face has—what does your uncle call it?—yes,
gravitas.
You English value that, I find. But as to me, well, I would much rather have my nose back.”

And then she touched the brim of her hat with her crop, spun her mount around, and cantered back up the country lane.

Quin watched her go until she had vanished in the distance; watched until even her dust had disappeared. Then he returned to the little cottage and shoved the door open with one shoulder. Inside, he sloshed a little water into the kitchen basin and meticulously washed the apple juice from his hands. A pity he could not wash away the memories of Viviana so easily.

Bracing his arms wide on the sink base, he looked through the small window at the dull green pasture beyond. Viviana seemed wholly unaffected by him, almost as if their months together had never been. For well over a year he had courted her and pursued her and made love to her, never entirely sure that she was his. Now he was certain. No matter how desperately he had wished to possess her, he had never even come close.

Viviana had been owned by the opera, and by the admirers and patrons who worshiped her. Men like his uncle. And many men less benign than his uncle. Quin had tried to warn her about them, believing, he supposed, that she did not fully comprehend the dangers.

He had been envious of her talent, it was true. Well, envious of the attention it attracted, and of the suggestive looks and offers it brought her way. He had loved her. He had wished only to protect her. And yes, to have her entirely to himself—because he had been so desperately afraid, so almost laughably insecure. He was half-ashamed to admit that now.

He wished to God he’d been just a little older, just a little more experienced when he’d met her. He wished, too, that she had not been so much older than he. Oh, perhaps it was nothing now; a few years, no more. But then, it had seemed insurmountable. It had felt to Quin as if Viviana already knew the secrets of life. As if she were watching him with veiled amusement as he struggled to come to terms with his manhood.

Gianpiero Bergonzi, it seemed, had been fully confident of his manhood. And he had wanted Viviana, too, had wanted her badly enough to make an honest woman of her. Perhaps Bergonzi had simply had the backbone to do what Quin should have done. Perhaps Quin should have married her. Perhaps Viviana would have come to love him in time. And perhaps he could have been the father of her children.

She had
three
children, he had discovered. Not just the pretty little girl he’d seen at Astley’s but another daughter, and a son, too. It boggled the mind when he considered it. Her body was so little changed. Oh, she was more voluptuous. And yes, there were a few tiny lines about her eyes, and when she frowned, about her mouth. But she had
three children.
And another man had given them to her.

Another man had done what he had not the guts to do. Another man had enjoyed the beauty and the pleasure of living with Viviana every day, for the whole of his life. Because Quin had given up the chance. That was the awful truth.

The aching sense of loss nearly swallowed him up then. The yawning emptiness of the last decade reached out for him. And this time, there weren’t enough whores in all of Christendom, or enough virgins in all of Scotland, to push away the truth. His arms still braced wide on the sink, Quin squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself not to cry.

In which Lady Charlotte becomes Shockingly forgetful.

D
ecember settled over Buckinghamshire like a mantle of gray wool, each day shorter than the last. Then came two days of wind and rain. At Hill Court, Viviana was seized with a restlessness which no one else seemed to share. The children had fallen into a happy routine of study and play, and were well entertained by Lady Alice’s children, whose governess brought them over almost every afternoon.

Lord Chesley was a devoted host, but he preferred to spend his time with the gentlemen in the music room, observing “the miracle of creation,” as he called it. Viviana spent an hour each morning seeing to the running of the household with Mrs. Douglass, a duty Chesley had charmingly foisted off on her. The rest of the forenoon was devoted to her harp or her violin.

Nowadays, however, even her music no longer soothed her as it had done during some of her darkest and loneliest days in Venice. When it failed her now, she would simply leave the house to walk or to ride if it was not raining—and sometimes even the ill weather did not deter her. Rarely did anyone wish to accompany her. The chilly English air, Viviana found, had its advantages.

It was just such an afternoon when she was stopped by the gentlemen in the music room. “Why, there she is now,” she heard Chesley cry out. “Most fortuitous!”

Her father had turned round on his stool near the pianoforte.
“Vieni qui,
Vivie,” he said, eagerly motioning her inside. “Sit, sit!”

“Sicuro, Papà.”
She went in, still carrying her cloak and gloves, and took the chair he had offered.

Lord Digleby had risen from the pianoforte’s bench. “Have a look, Contessa,” he said eagerly as he passed a sheet of roughly marked music to her. “This is Maria’s last aria, when she discovers Orlando making love to her maid. What do you think?”

A little nervously, Viviana scanned it, mentally humming. The lyrics she had already seen, but the music was new to her.

“Here is the opening,” said Digleby, sending his fingers crashing down in a dramatic fashion. But the passage soon turned dark and heart-wrenching, and Viviana could see that the beauty of the lyrics was intended to take over. Her father’s eyes followed Digleby’s hands on the keyboard as a father might watch a much-loved child. Indeed, his music was much his progeny as was Viviana herself.

The music came to a halt. Viviana tried to hand the sheet back. “It is lovely, Lord Digleby. Utterly haunting.”

Digleby smiled a little tightly. “How kind you are, Contessa,” he said. “Your father and I wrote it together. But can you sing it, please, and give us your suggestions?”

“My suggestions?”

“Here, for example,” said her father, pointing to a particular passage as he spoke in rapid Italian. “I think it may be too funereal, when it needs instead to soar. I must hear you sing it to be sure.”

Viviana stood, and laid the sheet on the pianoforte. “Oh, you cannot possibly need my help,” she insisted. “It is quite perfect as it is.”

Her father gestured at the music.
“Dio mio, Vivie!”
he said impatiently. “Sing! Sing!”

“Oh, give it a try, old girl,” said Lord Chesley from the sofa. “I must admit, I am eager to hear it first from a master.”

“Va bene,”
she agreed.

There was nothing else to be done. She had known, eventually, it would come to this. And so she stood, her knees shaking a little, and snatched the sheet from the pianoforte. Digleby smiled, and played the opening chords again. The haunting feel of the melody began to emerge, then to dominate. Viviana filled her lungs and began to sing.

The lyrics began simply enough. The betrayed Maria was plotting revenge against her faithless lover, and the words and music reflected it. Viviana tried to do the piece justice, but several times she faltered, and had to look to the gentlemen for direction. Once her father stopped her, snatched the sheet, and altered the notes slightly. He passed the sheet back.

“Continue,
cara mia,”
he said, lifting his hand.

Viviana stumbled on. Of course, no one expected her to sing well on a rough first pass. The music was yet half-formed, the gentlemen themselves still unsure of just how they wished it to sound.

Apparently, she did not bungle it too badly. When she finished, Lord Chesley stood, applauding enthusiastically. “Brava, brava, my girl!” he said. “You still have the voice of an angel.”

Viviana was not at all sure that was the case. She glanced at her father to gauge his response. But he and Lord Digleby had turned back to the pianoforte, already haggling over what changes needed to be made.

Chesley caught her hand as she passed. “You look pale, my dear,” he murmured.

She shook her head. “I am well enough, Chesley, thank you.”

“You are bored,” he said, frowning. “This damned weather has cooped you up. You are used to a life of glamour, and two or three handsome men fawning over you at every turn.”

“That is hardly the case,” she murmured.

Chesley laughed. “It is
always
the case when I see you, my dear girl,” he said. “Now, what to do for this rustic ennui? I know! We shall have a dinner party!”

Viviana smiled wanly. “That would be lovely.”

With one last squeeze to her hand, Chesley let her go and returned his attention to the music. In the passageway, Viviana tossed her cloak across her shoulders and drew on her gloves, then made her escape into the cold winter’s day.

She would walk, she decided, into the village. She had seen a dressmaker’s shop there, and she needed a few warmer, more serviceable things to see her through the English winter. Surely neither Quin nor his mother would frequent the village shops?

The walk was less than a mile, and she saw no one until she entered the village outskirts. Her trip was cut short, however, as soon as she passed by Arlington Park’s massive gates. A gig was parked by the gatehouse, attended by a servant. A handsome young man was coming out of the front door carrying a brown leather satchel. In the doorway, Lady Charlotte leaned upon a brass-knobbed stick, eyeing him a little nastily, as if to reassure herself that the gentleman was indeed departing. Her keen eyes did not miss Viviana.

“Good afternoon, Contessa!” she called in her quavery voice. “Do come in. I’m just ridding myself of this plague, as you see, and have no one else to amuse me.”

The young man paused by the gig and offered his hand. “I am the plague,” he said, bowing neatly over her hand. “Dr. Gould, at your service.”

“I hope I shan’t require them,” said Viviana with a smile. “But I am glad indeed to meet you. I am Contessa Bergonzi.”

He smiled warmly. “I guessed as much,” he said. “We get few such celebrated visitors here.”

But Lady Charlotte was looking impatient now. Viviana could see no polite way of refusing her, though she could not imagine why Quin’s elderly aunt would wish to see her, particularly given the circumstances of their last meeting. But it was for those very reasons Viviana could not refuse her. To do so would have looked…well, guilty.

“You must be frozen through,” said Lady Charlotte when they were comfortably situated in her front parlor. “I must find Mrs. Steeple, and tell her to send tea.”

Viviana raised her hand. “Please do not put yourself to any trouble on my account.”

“Nonsense,” she said.

Lady Charlotte was gone but a moment. She settled back into her chair with a gleam in her eye. “How lovely of you to visit me, Contessa,” she purred. “The elderly live such quiet existences, we must look to the young for our window on the world.”

Viviana looked at her appraisingly. “My window has narrowed considerably, I fear,” she said. “May I ask, ma’am, after your health?”

“I’m quite well, thank you.” Lady Charlotte looked puzzled.

“You have recovered, then, from—from your fall at Arlington Park?”

“Oh, that silly business!” said the old lady. “Yes, yes, they do say I fainted. I’ve no memory of it.”

Viviana wasn’t sure she believed her. Perhaps Lady Charlotte was simply being polite. Still, it was time to change the subject.

Lady Charlotte beat her to it. “I do admire your wardrobe, my dear,” she remarked, eyeing Viviana’s bottle green walking dress. “Such vivid colors. Such instinctive élan. You must feel like a hothouse orchid amongst a field of common daisies here in our little English village.”

“My hair is jet-black, and my skin is too pale,” Viviana murmured. “I have always felt I needed color.”

“I agree,” said the old lady. “We English ladies have such insipid taste.”

Viviana turned the subject again. “You spoke of a window on the world, ma’am,” she said. “Have you seen much of it?”

“Oh, by no means!” said the old lady, leaning intently forward. “You have visited places I can only dream of. Tell me, Contessa, what is Vienna like? I have always wished to go there.”

Viviana hesitated. “Well, from the little I saw, it was very grand,” she said. “I sang in two productions at the Kärnthnerthor, but we had little time for pleasure.”

“In my day, we scarcely knew what opera was,” said Lady Charlotte wistfully. “Nowadays it is said to be the great new thing. Can you imagine?”

Viviana smiled. “I was simply born to it,” she said. “I never thought of it as new or fashionable.”

“Ah, yes!” she said. “And you were born in Venice?”

“No, in Rome,” she said. “We moved nearer to Venice when my father acquired a patron there. We lived in a villa on his estate.”

“Well, when I was your age, plays were the thing,” said the old lady. “I actually saw Voltaire’s
Irène,
when it opened in Paris. The great man himself was there. It was my only real trip abroad—if one considers France to be so.”

“You chose well. Paris is very lovely.”

“You’ve sung there, too, I daresay?”

“Many times,” Viviana agreed.

The old lady went on to ask a number of mundane questions about the capitals she had visited and the important people for whom she had performed, until even Viviana began to feel bored. What on earth could Lady Charlotte find so interesting in the career of a has-been soprano? Just then, a young woman came in pushing a trolley which seemed overladen with delicacies.

“Heavens, what a lot of food for only two,” murmured Viviana.

But the servant was lingering uncertainly. “Hello, miss,” she finally said. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Viviana looked up and sprang at once to her feet. “Lucy—?” she cried, lifting one of the woman’s hands in her own. “Oh, Lucy! What a surprise! Oh,
cara mia,
how could I forget you?”

“Have you met our Lucy, Contessa?” Lady Charlotte looked surprised.

“But yes, she looked after me for a time,” exclaimed Viviana. “She was sent to me by Lord Chesley when first I came to London. And I have not been so well cared for since.”

Lucy blushed. “You always were kind, miss.”

“Lucy comes in on Wednesdays to help Mrs. Steeple,” Lady Charlotte explained. “But she has four children now who take up most of her time.”

“Lucy, let me look at you.” Viviana caught her other hand. “Four children!”

“And all healthy, miss,” said Lucy.

“This is such a pleasant surprise,” said Viviana breathlessly. “And your family? They are well?”

“My sister keeps house for Squire Lawson now,” she said. “And Aunt Effie is still at Hill Court.”

“Why, I had quite forgotten Mrs. Douglass was your aunt.” Viviana smiled. “I did hear, of course, that you’d married your handsome footman, but I got the impression you’d moved away.”

“Oh, just to the next village,” said Lucy. “Joe came into a little money, miss. He bought the Queen’s Arms near Lower Hampden.”

“How happy I am for you,” said Viviana, dropping Lucy’s hands. “I must call on you one afternoon.”

“I wish you would, miss,” said Lucy shyly. “I’ve something I’d like to show you.”

Viviana lifted her shoulders. “Well, I’ve nothing to do this afternoon,” she said. “What time do you start home?”

“I’ll be another hour, thereabouts,” said Lucy, looking a bit embarrassed. “But it’s a far piece, miss, if you’ve no carriage. Do you mind the walk?”

“Indeed, I should be glad for it.”

“All right, then.” Lucy bobbed a little curtsy and started to go, but just then, the sound of a carriage drawing up distracted her. “That’ll be his lordship and Lady Alice,” said Lucy. “Shall I let them in, ma’am?”

Lady Charlotte looked suddenly confused. “Who?”

“Lord Wynwood and Lady Alice,” said Lucy, looking at Lady Charlotte oddly. “They’re to take tea with you, ma’am. Had you forgotten?”

“Oh, dear!” said Lady Charlotte. “Have I got myself mixed up again? It cannot be Wednesday already, can it?”

Viviana looked at her suspiciously. “You must be patient with the elderly, my dear,” murmured Lady Charlotte, as Lucy left. “When you are old, you will marvel at what one can accidentally forget.”

Viviana did not believe this was an accident. But she had little time in which to consider it, for Lucy had thrown open the parlor door, and Alice was sweeping across the room to greet them, her arms wide.

“What a delightful surprise, Viviana!” she said. “Aunt Charlotte did not mention she’d invited you.”

Lady Charlotte was looking very small and frail now. “I must have got my days mixed up, my dear,” she said, offering her cheek to be kissed. “And Quinten! Come here, my boy. You know Contessa Bergonzi, of course.”

Quin bowed stiffly in Viviana’s direction. He did not look pleased to see her. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he murmured. “I trust I find you well?”

Viviana forced a polite smile. “Quite, I thank you.”

She did not, however, feel especially well. She said little as Quin and Alice settled in and took a cup of tea from their aunt. Viviana had the sensation of having just walked into a room in which she was not wanted—even resented, perhaps. The vow of peace she had shared with Quin seemed to have been declared null and void on his part. No doubt he resented her presumption in calling upon his aunt. But what choice had she had in the matter?

She realized Lady Charlotte was urging a plate of sandwiches in her direction.