The Saint

by Madeline Hunter

  Vergil stepped forward to greet Catalani, and kissed her hand smoothly. She said something quietly that brought a smile to his face.

  If the unexpected visit of an opera singer to Laclere Park distressed him, he did not show it. Probably he would take the matter up with Penelope later.

  Penelope brought the newcomers toward the house. Bianca’s knees wobbled with excitement.

  “This must be Charlotte. A young woman now, and so lovely,” Catalani said. “Are you out yet?”

  “Next year,” Pen explained. “Vergil does not approve of the young age some girls come out these days.”

  Catalani glanced back at the trailing viscount and her lips pursed with humor. “A good ploy, and it will be very effective. Let them wait for such a diamond. You will be the sensation of the season, Charlotte. I predict that your brothers will need four extra footmen just to guard the garden walls.”

  Pen drew Catalani toward Bianca. “This is Bianca Kenwood, from Baltimore. She is Vergil’s ward.”

  “I have never had the pleasure of visiting your country. We will be sure to talk. I have many questions for you.”

  “And I for you. I will be visiting Italy very soon.”

  “You plan a grand tour for your sister and ward, Lord Laclere?” Catalani asked while Pen guided her into the house. “Ten extra footmen, then, if you send such beauties to my country.”

  Bianca scooted to catch up with Charlotte, ecstatic by the turn of events. This party promised to be the highlight of her entire stay in England.

  “That is all of them for today,” Charlotte explained. “Pen said that Mr. Witherby wrote that he would arrive tomorrow morning. Let us go rest before dinner.”

  Bianca refused to do so unless it became clear that Catalani herself would retire. She waited until the stately Catalani floated up the stairs with Penelope beside her.

  She found herself standing alone in the empty entrance hall, knowing it would be impossible to rest now. Looking for some way to relieve her itching excitement, she went into the library, found the volume of Shelley’s poems that she had been reading, and tucked herself into the corner of a divan facing a far window.

  This was her favorite spot for reading, especially in the afternoons. Shaded light flooded in the window and the breeze was divine. No one could see her here unless they walked around the divan. It had become one of her little nooks of privacy.

  Bootsteps entered the room. She stretched and turned to see who had come. Dante spotted her and walked over, carrying his hat and riding whip. He threw himself onto a chair, facing her, and stretched out his booted legs.

  “They are all here?” He had disappeared from the house after Fleur’s arrival.

  “All but Mr. Witherby.”

  “I am surprised he is delayed. I would expect him to take advantage of every moment with my sister.”

  “Charlotte?”

  “Pen. He has become a special friend to her during the last year. Or at least he thinks that he has. Don’t know Pen’s idea of it, although she appears to welcome his company. I’m sure that is why she has invited him, even though he is an old friend of Vergil’s as well.”

  The phrase “special friend” alluded to more than companionship. Dante often lapsed into speaking to her in this familiar manner, as if they shared some secret understanding of the world. His conspiratorial tones implied a type of intimacy.

  He lounged casually, looking at her from beneath thick lashes in a way that always made her uncomfortable. They were always alone when he looked at her like that.

  “Maria Catalani recently arrived with Mrs. Gaston. It was a surprise for everyone,” she said.

  That caused his attention to sharpen. “Mrs. Gaston is here? I should have asked Pen who was attending before agreeing to stay myself.”

  “You do not care for her?”

  “Through sheer persistence she has managed to insert herself into many circles. She sees herself as a great patroness of artists, and wants others to know how she advances careers.”

  “Does she? Advance careers?”

  He shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. Pen’s artistic circles do not interest me much, and that seems to be what we have here. Mrs. Gaston and Catalani, you say. Lord Calne is another patron of the arts. Cornell Witherby will be good company, at least, although with the others here he will probably only talk about his poetry. Hopefully Vergil will distract him from that.”

  “Do you think that Vergil will allow Catalani to stay?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I thought that, perhaps, with Fleur here and Charlotte and . . .”

  Her allusion amused him. “This is Pen’s party, and my brother knew what that would mean. Vergil may be a saint, but he is never rude. Besides, fame like Catalani’s has a way of obscuring the means by which it is achieved.” He rose. “I think that I will go for a walk. I would be honored if you joined me. I will show you the ruins.”

  Bianca had already found the ruins of Laclere Park’s medieval keep, and she did not want to visit them alone with a rake. Especially one who looked down at her with the light currently shining in Dante’s eyes.

  “Thank you, but I think that I will continue reading my book for a while longer.”

  A subtle annoyance altered his expression. To her astonishment, he reached out and stroked one finger along her jawline. “You do not have to be afraid of me, Bianca.”

  She angled away from his touch. “Your brother said that it is not customary to address women in such a familiar way here.”

  “I am not my brother.”

  No, he was not. The last week had been full of this young man’s attention. She had tried to discourage him. Unsuccessfully, so it appeared.

  His hand touched her again, cupping her chin. Her eyes widened in disbelief when he tilted her head up, bent, and kissed her lips. It happened so quickly that shock left her immobile.

  He misunderstood. Sliding down beside her, he deepened the kiss and moved to embrace her.

  She broke away and made it to the window with a staggering lunge. Furious with embarrassment, she faced him down. “Do not dare do that again.”

  He rose. “My apologies. I should have asked your permission first.”

  “You would not have received it.”

  “I think I would have.”

  “You misunderstand our friendship.”

  “I do not think so. You are fearful and confused, and that is appropriate in one so innocent. I will not kiss you again without your permission, but when I ask, you will give it.”

  She groped for a scathing response. He smiled in an insufferably self-confident way and walked out.

  She sank back into the divan, pulled up her legs, and huddled in its corner. What had given this rake the idea that she would welcome such a thing? Had he learned about her performances in London? For all she knew, he had attended one.

  Just her luck that the wrong brother had concluded that she was a little wild, and careless about proprieties.

  “Hiding from the duties of state?” Dante asked as he strolled into the study where Vergil read his correspondence.

  “Resting my face before I must smile so long my lips crack.”

  “It shouldn’t be too bad. She invited Witherby and St. John so you would be diverted.”

  Vergil was grateful that Pen had invited Daniel and Diane St. John. He had not seen them for months. They were Pen’s friends too. She had befriended Diane St. John when the young woman first came to London, and had played a role in the dramatic events that had led to Diane’s marriage to the shipping magnate.

  As for Witherby, he suspected that Pen had offered that invitation for reasons other than her brother’s diversion.

  Dante lounged against the window frame and absently dropped the lead ball onto the ramps of its toy. “Fleur is looking lovely as always. Should we expect an announcement some night after dinner?”

  “I do not think so.”

  “It is past time, Verg.”

 
“Of all the people to lecture me, Dante, you are the last. My responsibilities to the living members of this family far outweigh any to those of the future.”

  “Are you saying that we are so expensive that you cannot afford a wife?”

  “I am saying that any woman who marries me will have certain expectations that I cannot fulfill at this time. Which brings us to the matter of your own marriage, which will significantly relieve the financial burden. I turn the question back to you. Should we plan an announcement? I recall a confident young blood saying smugly that a week should do it.”

  “Damn it, these things take time. Furthermore, she is . . . confusing.”

  He pulled a chair over to the desk and sat flush along its other side, his arm resting on its edge, propping up his head, his booted legs crossed. It was the pose of Dante settling in for a “man to man.”

  Since the topic of conversation was Bianca Kenwood, Vergil wished that he could be spared any confidences. Bianca continuously intruded on his thoughts, and last night, after his return to Laclere Park, he had found himself loitering in the drawing room with the ladies until she retired.

  “I often think that I have gained some ground, only to find it is an illusion. She appears very warm one morning, but that afternoon I hear her being just as warm with a servant. She turns those big blue eyes on me and I think I should propose then and there, only to have her ignore me for the next hour. Sometimes I think that I am dealing with a girl so ignorant that she does not even notice my interest, and other times . . .”

  “Other times?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if she is far from ignorant and leading me in a fine dance. Forgive me, but we are speaking frankly here.”

  “You certainly are.”

  “I wonder if she is being deliberately intriguing. Elusive in a calculating way.”

  “It sounds more to me that you are failing and looking to blame her for it.”

  “Perhaps. But there is something about her, indefinable . . . an air, a scent, I don’t know. I look at her and see a springlike innocence, and then all of a sudden she will look back and I find myself thinking that she would make a splendid mistress. It is a confusing and compelling combination.”

  So Dante had finally sensed what Vergil had that first night in the gaming hall, and too often since. “I trust not too compelling.”

  “Of course not. But it puts one off one’s game. There is an art to this, and knowing the woman is essential.”

  “I am always grateful for your instruction on these matters, Dante, but let us get to the point. If you proposed tomorrow, do you think that she would accept?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  Which meant probably not. “Does she even know that you are interested? She might interpret your attention as mere friendship, a helping hand in a strange country.”

  “She knows now.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “I just saw her in the library.”

  “You declared your intentions?”

  Dante looked away and Vergil instantly knew that the interest had been articulated with actions, not words. He almost reached across the desk to strangle him. “Let me rephrase that. Does she know that your intentions are honorable?”

  “What else could they be? She is your ward.”

  Vergil rubbed between his eyebrows. “Well, let us just suppose that she has heard about you—”

  “From whom? Pen would hardly go telling tales.”

  “From anyone else. A servant. Her maid, Jane. Nigel Kenwood.”

  “She hasn’t seen Nigel all week but once, when Pen went to call on him, and they weren’t alone, so he could not—”

  “From whomever, Dante. Suppose someone has told her. If you did not express honorable intentions, she may think that you pursue her for other reasons.”

  Dante straightened. “If so, I am insulted.”

  “All the same—”

  “I am not a scoundrel.”

  “I recommend that you clarify things. If she has misunderstood, she will only avoid you now.”

  Dante rose and paced back to the window. “Of course, you are right. However, if I propose and she turns me down, the game is up. Explaining my intentions, short of a proposal, does the same thing. Girls get these notions, and a man who pursues despite them looks a fool. I sat there in the library and I found myself wondering, what if it isn’t contradictory?”

  “You are not making much sense.”

  “What if she is in fact innocent, but has the other inside her? The man who tapped it would be in a very strong position with her. Talk about an inside track, why—”

  “No.”

  “I am not talking about anything really dishonorable, Vergil. Just a mild dalliance that would save a lot of time.”

  “You will do nothing that even remotely compromises her.”

  “You are being impractical and too concerned with proprieties. This was your idea, remember? If I did compromise her, marriage would be inevitable.”

  It was not his much-vaunted sense of propriety that rebelled against Dante’s insinuations, but something more visceral, having to do with a relentless simmer and the scent of lavender and a melodic voice that had sung in his memory during a week of travel and duties. Still, being a saint had its uses. He would not abort these arrangements, but he would not allow Dante to trap her.

  “Winning a woman’s honest affection may seem a long, tedious effort to a man accustomed to exploiting quick passion, Dante, but if you intend to have her, that is how you will have to do it.”

  “At least someone in this family has some passion, damn it. Between you and Milton . . .”

  At their brother’s name, Vergil’s whole body tightened. “I would think that you would be very careful not to mention Milton and your reckless appetites in the same breath.”

  Dante’s face darkened with resentment. “You still blame me for something I could not foresee.”

  “You are wrong. I do not blame you. There was no way for you to know what he intended to do. But do not pull him into these discussions. Insult me as cold, if you want, but leave our brother and his memory out of this. All of that has nothing to do with Miss Kenwood and your behavior toward her.”

  “Ah, yes, the lovely Bianca. You are drawing some fine lines in your concern for her, Verg. Your protection is oddly selective and shortsighted. You will not have your ward compromised, but you would tie her for life to a man whom you despise.”

  His words found their mark for reasons Dante would never know. “I do not despise you.”

  “Do you not? You may not blame me, but you have never forgiven me.”

  Vergil saw pain in the beautiful face that never showed a care. He should have been more perceptive to the guilt that Milton’s death must have caused Dante. Odd that the discussion of a girl who had nothing to do with that episode was drawing this out.

  “I may criticize how you live your life, but it does not reflect my feelings about the role you inadvertently played in the disaster last year. You do not need forgiveness for that, Dante. Ignorance is not a damnable offense. If I never spoke of this with you before, it was not because of blame, but only because I do not seek reminders of it. Perhaps my reticence on the subject has not been fair to you, however.”

  Dante’s face was a visage of strained composure, but his eyes glowed. “I was here. I dined with him. I should have seen—”

  “I am grateful that you were with him during his last hour. I think that he was too.”

  The air in the room flowed heavily with the raw intimacy born of unanticipated frankness. An invisible barrier had fallen that Vergil had never realized existed. A chasm dug since the crisis of Milton’s death had unexpectedly been breached, and all because of the conflicting emotions created by Bianca Kenwood’s presence in this household.

  He looked at his younger brother with new eyes, and saw a depth carefully obscured by the rake’s carefree persona. She could do worse.

  Dante smil
ed wryly and sauntered to the door. “I’ll do it your way, Verg. Should be interesting, trying to inspire a chaste affection with only intimations of something more later. Unfairly limits me, though. Can’t play my best card. After all, I have nothing to offer the girl except pleasure.”

  An hour ago, Vergil would have agreed.

  chapter 6

  Vergil was the first to the breakfast room the next morning. He wanted to get a ride in before his guests roused themselves.

  He had just settled down to his plate when a movement at the window caught his eye. Green and gold flashed by as a blond head and trim figure disappeared behind some bushes.

  Bianca Kenwood had risen with the dawn again.

  He turned from the window with annoyance. Dante had said that she had only seen Nigel Kenwood once, but Dante wouldn’t know about Bianca’s early wanderings. The possibility existed that she and Nigel had been meeting secretly for over a week.

  He drew a mental curtain in front of the image forming in his mind. There was no evidence that she contrived assignations with her cousin. All the same, whatever her purpose, she had blithely walked into the park at dawn despite the danger she had faced from poachers that day on her horse. That episode would have kept a normal young woman fearful of venturing forth unless half an army accompanied her.

  But then, she was not a normal young woman.

  Foregoing his meal, he slipped out into the garden and crossed to the path she had been walking.

  “Laclere.”

  Vergil pivoted at the call. Cornell Witherby strode toward him along the lane that led from the stables.

  Down the path, gold and green got swallowed by the forest.

  “Don’t tell me that you rode through the night, Witherby.” Vergil noted that the new arrival was well turned out in brown riding coat and fawn trousers. The boots looked new and the sandy locks visible beneath Witherby’s hat appeared newly styled.

  Witherby looked very dashing and in damnable good humor.

  “I rode down most of the way yesterday afternoon, and stayed over at an inn.”