by Juliana Gray
Particularly since it appeared to belong to their own grandfather.
* * *
There,” said Abigail, giving Lilibet’s bodice a last straightening. “You look perfect. You’ve filled out so beautifully with Morini’s cooking, I’d hardly recognize you.”
Lilibet narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t detect a spark of mischief in Abigail’s eyes. Was she blind? Was the entire castle blind? Her breasts were spilling from her bodice, her hair and skin glowed like patent electric bulbs, and her belly had taken on a decided curve. Did everybody really think it was only the result of the favorable Italian air and Morini’s irresistible panettone?
People see what they expect to see, her mother had once told her, with a shrug.
Presumably nobody expected to see the legendarily virtuous Lady Somerton with child by her secret lover.
She’d have to tell them soon, of course. What would she say? Would she allow them to assume the baby was a parting gift from her husband, or would she tell them the truth?
“You don’t think I’ve grown too plump?” she asked, with a downward glance at her telltale bosom.
“Lord Roland certainly doesn’t seem to mind.” Abigail adjusted the apron at her waist. “The way he looks at you! You might take a little pity on him, you know.”
Lilibet nudged Abigail’s hands away. This morning, she’d felt the first tiny flutters inside her womb, and the hands she craved nearby so private and flawless a miracle did not belong to Abigail. “How do you know I don’t?”
“Darling, your room’s next to mine. If I can hear Mr. Burke bringing back Alexandra at the crack of every dawn, I’d certainly notice you. Does mine look all right?” Abigail twirled before her.
“Quite adorably fetching. You’ll have to keep your distance from poor old Wallingford.”
“I doubt poor old Wallingford will be in attendance,” Abigail said, with a trace of smugness.
She was right. The courtyard burst with people—farmers, villagers, a local philharmonic playing lilting favorites with surprising skill, the towering ginger-topped figure of Phineas Burke—but no sign of the tall, black-haired English duke. Francesca appeared, wearing a white-feathered mask and leading Philip by the hand; he spotted her at once and ran over.
“Do you like my mask, Mama? Do you? It’s bully, isn’t it? I colored the feathers red myself.” He squeezed her around the middle and fingered one particularly spectacular feather, arching outward and upward from the right side. “And this one’s the eagle feather Uncle Roland found for me on his ride this afternoon. Isn’t it cracking?”
“It’s a glorious mask, darling. I adore it. But run along with Francesca; I’ve got to help Abigail and Lady Morley serve the food. It’s the Midsummer’s Eve tradition, apparently.” She planted a last kiss on the top of his head and returned to the kitchen, where her cousins were lifting trays of antipasti from the broad wooden table.
“I don’t know why I let Abigail talk me into these things,” said Alexandra, with a regal frown. Lilibet saw with relief that even her own ripening bosom couldn’t match the abundance of Alexandra’s: released at last from the confines of proper English clothing, it swelled above the low neckline of the servant’s dresses with a lushness that put Lilibet to shame. “Have you a handkerchief about you, perhaps, to protect my modesty?”
“Not that large, I’m afraid,” Lilibet said. “Abigail, where did you find these costumes? They’re hardly decent. Not at all what Maria and Francesca wear.”
“Oh, Morini brought them out. Didn’t you, signorina?”
Lilibet narrowed her eyes at the housekeeper, who was placing stuffed olives on a tray with a hint of a smile hiding at the corners of her mouth.
“They are seeming so perfect for the festa,” said Signorina Morini. “Here are the olives, Signora Somerton. Go now, before they are turning cold.”
Lilibet heaved a sigh and picked up the tray, following the backs of Abigail and Alexandra down the hall and into the warm, noisy courtyard. Sunset was just deepening into the twilight, and the torches were being lit, one by one, about the perimeter. She scanned the mobile crowd for a familiar tawny head, and found it at one of the long tables, leaned in conversation toward a young woman who looked as if she came from the village. He wore no jacket, no waistcoat. His face bore a white-feathered mask, and a broad smile below it.
Blood rushed to her cheeks. She began to turn away, but the movement caught his eye and he rose to his feet, white shirt billowing in the evening breeze off the mountains.
She couldn’t see his expression, hidden behind the half mask, but she felt the rake of his eyes as they took in her face, fell to where her breasts swelled upward just above the platter of stuffed olives, then climbed back up to her eyes. His mouth sagged into a helpless O of shock.
That should teach him to flirt with village girls.
She angled deliberately away and carried her tray to the table next to Roland’s. He moved just as quickly. Just before she reached it, he interposed his formidable figure between her and the nearest occupant. “May I help you with that, signorina?” he asked.
“You may not,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be carrying trays. You shouldn’t be carrying anything.”
“It’s nothing. Besides, I understand it’s the worst sort of bad luck, if the Midsummer guests aren’t served by the ladies of the castle.”
He raised his eyebrows. “According to whom?”
“Morini, of course. Now let me pass.”
He leaned forward, until his wine-scented breath warmed her ear. “Only if you promise to meet me, later tonight,” he said, his voice low and intimate.
“I’ll promise no such indecent thing. Now let me pass.”
“Hmm. Are you certain?” His tone dropped even further. “I assure you, I’ll make it worth your while.”
She nudged him aside with her elbow. “Reminding me of your skill with women doesn’t improve your case, your lordship.”
He laughed. “Not women in general, Lilibet. Only you.” But he stepped backward, allowing her past, and she set her tray of olives on the thick trestle table and tried to settle her racing heart.
When next she saw him, an exhausting half hour later, Philip was at his side, tugging at his hand. Roland bent down to hear him, and then nodded and hoisted the boy onto his broad shoulders with a natural ease that made her eyes ache, made every vein in her body pulse with love. He couldn’t know, he couldn’t possibly realize how deeply it moved her to see them together, even as it wracked her with guilt. She saw, now, what a dreadful father Somerton had been, always brusque and dismissive; but he was still Philip’s father, being upstaged effortlessly by his wife’s lover.
What had she done? Was it right?
What if she failed? What if Roland decided he couldn’t wait any longer, and left them?
She’d come a long distance from that first surge of elation, following the posting of her letter to Bellwether and Knobbs. A brisk correspondence had ensued, and by early May the solicitors had enough information to send a formal notice to Somerton that his wife had initiated a suit of divorce against him, on grounds of cruelty and habitual adultery.
There had been no response.
Letters to Somerton’s lawyers had been met with a terse acknowledgment of receipt of correspondence, dated the 10th instant, the 14th instant, the 19th instant. But that was all. It was like dueling with a ghost.
She’d instructed them to proceed with the legal formalities. Perhaps, after all, Lord Somerton wouldn’t contest her. Perhaps the whole matter would glide through the courts without any opposition, and she’d be free in months.
Or perhaps his silence meant something more sinister.
As she watched, Philip clutched at Roland’s hair, laughed, and bounced atop his lordship’s shoulders with happy confi
dence. Roland’s hands, sure and capable, wrapped around her son’s legs, anchoring him safely in place. He tilted his feather-masked head upward, smiling, saying something to Philip that made the boy laugh even harder.
Please, God, she prayed, the empty tray in her arms sagging below her waist. Keep him safe. Keep them both safe. Somerton has the heir he needed; let him be satisfied, let him be merciful, let him leave us alone to raise Philip into manhood.
“They make a lovely pair, don’t they?” Abigail’s soft voice, next to Lilibet’s shoulder, made her startle and turn.
“Yes . . . no . . . I . . .”
“I must say, I never expected Penhallow to take an interest in anything other than a horse or a lady,” Abigail went on, folding her arms, “but I’m happy to find myself so mistaken.”
Lilibet sank down onto a nearby bench, her bones and muscles sighing with relief. “It’s very kind of him. Philip’s just at the age where he appreciates a man’s influence.”
“Hmm.” Abigail settled next to her. “A lovely party, isn’t it? Morini’s done such a splendid job, arranging things.”
“I’d no idea the village held so many people. Rather nice to see the old pile so merry.” Lilibet stretched out her legs and flexed her feet.
“Quite. It hardly seems cursed at all, does it?”
Lilibet straightened. “Cursed? What on earth?”
“Didn’t you know? Good gracious. I thought I’d told everybody. The most delicious story, hundreds of years old, to do with a naughty Englishman who happened to be mucking about Italy and ruined the signore’s daughter.”
Lilibet began to laugh. “Oh, Abigail, really. Next you’ll be telling me his ghost is the one you’ve sensed haunting about the castle.”
“No, not at all. It turns out it’s rather more complicated than that.” Abigail plucked idly at her fingers. “The old signore came to a suitably bloody end, but not before cursing the castle and its occupants.”
“With what?” Lilibet laughed again, more hollowly. Not that she believed in curses, of course. Not that she was subject to irrational beliefs of any kind. “Drafts in the hallways? Because I rather like them, you know. They add to the atmosphere.”
“That’s the thing. I don’t know. I can’t get it out of Morini, not after hours of trying.” Abigail reached across the table to pluck an overlooked sweetmeat and pop it into her mouth. “I’ve tried all my powers of persuasion. Because of course it can’t be coincidence.”
“What can’t be coincidence?”
Abigail turned to meet her gaze, her eyebrows raised in amusement. “Why, that we’re English, of course. Just like the naughty fellow in Queen Elizabeth’s day.” She lifted herself up from the bench and surveyed the eddying crowd. The philharmonic was starting up again, after a short rest, and dancers were gathering in the center of the terrace. She turned back to Lilibet’s astonished gaze and winked. “And after all, if I were the lingering spirit of the old signore, I’d be racking my ghostly brains to plot my revenge.”
SEVENTEEN
Pirates and harem girls probably weren’t the most appropriate subjects for a young boy’s bedtime story, Roland suspected, but they were a dashed sight more interesting than a family of rabbits taking tea in a lettuce patch.
Well, after a bit of judicious bowdlerization, of course.
“And what did the pirates do with the harem girls, once they sank the sultan’s ship?” asked Philip eagerly. His fingers clutched the blanket in two enormous fistfuls.
Roland closed the ends of the book firmly together. “I daresay they all sang a few merry songs and went to sleep,” he said. “And for that matter, so should you, before your mother comes up to check on you.”
Philip sighed and settled back on his pillow. “I expect so. I do like that one, Uncle Roland. Much more exciting than Mama’s books. Can you read my story every night?”
“Afraid not, old fellow. That’s your mother’s favorite job, and she’d be awfully cross with me if I took it over. I’m just filling in while she’s busy with the party.” He pulled the blankets up to Philip’s round chin and tucked in the sides beneath the mattress. “Is that all right?”
“A bit tight,” Philip squeaked.
“Oh. Sorry, old man.” Roland loosened the bedclothes a trifle. “Better?”
Philip nodded, face solemn in the center of his white linen pillowcase. “Uncle Roland,” he said, rather quiet, “do you have any children?”
Roland placed his elbows on his knees and knitted his fingers together, atop the book. “No. No, I don’t, I’m afraid. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Haven’t . . .” Something like a choke caught the back of Roland’s throat. Rather odd. He swallowed hard to dissipate the unfamiliar sensation. “Haven’t been lucky enough, I suppose.”
“Oh.” Philip’s eyes were cast down. He appeared to be studying the weave of the blanket, thick and soft in the flickering glow of the candle by the bed. “Do you want to have children?”
“Do you know,” Roland said, “I never used to give the matter much thought. But now I believe I do. I’d like it a great deal.”
Philip’s jaw worked. “I suppose . . . if we stay here in Italy forever . . . perhaps . . . you could have the baby in Mama’s tummy. If you wanted it.”
Oh, Christ.
Roland blinked away the ache at the back of his eyeballs. “I daresay that would be very nice. If your mother doesn’t mind, naturally.”
“Would you love it very much?”
“I’d love it very much, of course.”
“I think . . . I wish . . .” A round, fat tear formed at the inner corner of Philip’s left eye. “I wish I were the baby.”
Roland felt himself falling, as if the pirates in the story had bound his arms and legs and forced him off the plank, into the middle of the wide blue ocean. There were no rules for this. No damned list of instructions, no commandments. Thou shalt not steal the love of another man’s child. Thou shalt not refuse thy love to a child who needs it.
He’d have to go on instinct alone.
He laid his hand on the top of Philip’s dark head. “Look here,” he said, “I’m quite glad you’re not that baby in your mother’s tummy, because I love you well enough the way you are.”
Philip’s eyes shot up to meet his. “Really?”
“After all, you can’t take a baby fishing, can you? He can’t even hold the rod. And who’d keep me on my toes with all those clever questions, eh? No, Philip.” He leaned down to kiss the boy’s forehead. “I love you quite as much as a child of my own, which is to say very much indeed. Now go to sleep, or your mother will have my guts for garters.”
Philip turned his cheek to the pillow and yawned. “Don’t worry. I’d stop her. I’d tell her it was my fault.”
Roland ruffled his hair. “I daresay you would. I daresay . . .”
The door creaked open. “Signore?”
He rose from the chair. “Francesca? Everything all right? He’s just going off to sleep right now.”
She gave him a slight frown as she picked through his words. She’d learned a great deal of English in the past few months, looking after Philip and dealing with the ladies, but she still tended to become flustered in Roland’s presence and forget it all. “I watch now. Is all right?”
“Oh yes. Quite all right. I’m just leaving.”
“Signore, there is man. He wait for you. In the . . .” She motioned downward with her hand.
“The great hall?” he guessed. His blood accelerated through his body. A visitor? For him? At this hour?
Not a good sign.
“Yes. The hall, down the stair. He . . .” She stopped again, looking frustrated.
Roland pressed her. “When did he arrive? When did he come here?”
“
Now. Is five minutes. He say his name is Bee . . .” A scrunch of her forehead.
“Beadle.” Relief filled him—not Somerton—and then apprehension. What would bring the Bureau’s Florence agent out to see him, instead of sending a message? He looked down at Philip, who was blinking drowsily at them, too tired even for curiosity. “I’ll be down directly. Good night, Philip.”
“Good night, Uncle Roland.”
Roland closed the door behind him and raced down the stairs, the pirate book still clutched in his hand.
* * *
Beadle stood at the back of the great hall, in one of the bench-lined window recesses, watching the festivities in the courtyard. He wore a plain wool suit, the jacket of which lay slung over the seat to his right, topped by a round bowler hat.
“Beadle!” Roland advanced swiftly. “What brings you out here, old man? Come to celebrate the Midsummer with us, eh?”
Beadle spun around, feet scraping against the worn gray flagstones. “Penhallow! Thank God. I’ve been riding all day.”
“Not an emergency, I hope? Would you like a bit of water? Wine? We haven’t much stronger, I’m afraid.” Roland’s mind and body were already switching back into that well-remembered state of hyperawareness, calm and swift, that had seen him through countless crises in the past seven years. Whatever errand had brought Beadle out to the Castel sant’Agata so late on a June evening, he could settle the matter.
“No, no. The maid brought me a glass, a moment ago.” He gestured to the window ledge, on which a half-finished tumbler of water shone gold in the reflected torchlight. “Look, Penhallow, you’ve got to be square with me. I’ve brought serious news. Rather a shock. Is Lady Somerton about?”
“She’s outside.” Roland narrowed his gaze. He’d made Beadle aware of the basic facts of the case, including Lilibet’s suit of divorce against her husband, during his fortnightly trips into Florence to update himself on the situation at home. Indeed, the agent knew little less than he did at this point, other than the personal details: that Roland and Lilibet were in love, that she was expecting his child, that they planned to marry once the divorce was finalized. That last piece of information he’d withheld with some indecision; it was Lilibet’s private matter, of course, but it did have some bearing on the object of Sir Edward’s investigation.
