It was not because of her mother. It had happened before her parents had even met. Vergil had been correct about how it had happened too. Her father made the break. In a letter refusing Adam’s offer of an allowance, he laid out the reasons.
His explanation emptied her heart of its last shreds of joy and confidence. The dream that had sustained her since her mother’s death wobbled as if its foundations had been attacked. The inheritance suddenly struck her as an evil joke, a devil’s lure to join his sin.
No wonder her father had turned his back on the estate and status Adam had built.
Her grandfather had made his first fortune in the slave trade.
chapter 8
Very early the next morning, Bianca rose and dressed and headed to the viscount’s study. He had said she could practice there, which meant that she could enter. She did so, but with no intention of singing.
The rest of the boxes containing Adam’s effects were stacked against the window seat. Kneeling, she began to line up the wooden crates so she could examine their contents.
She wanted to know just how much she should hate Adam Kenwood before she made her decision about the inheritance. She ruefully admitted that she hoped to find some evidence of his redemption, so she would not feel obligated to renounce all of it.
Pushing the crates this way and that absorbed her, and she did not hear the bootsteps until they stopped right beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw polished boots and doeskin breeches. She trembled with an alert, stupid excitement.
“You were riding again,” she said. “At least one of us is allowed to enjoy the mornings.”
“You are welcome to join me any morning.”
“I do not think that would be wise. Do you?” She fussed with some files, not really seeing what she handled. “If you want me to leave, I will do this later. I am trying to find out if my mother wrote to him after father’s death, asking for help.”
He walked to the other side of the row of crates and lowered to his knees. “You said it was during the war. Those years seem to be in this crate here.”
She scooted over and pawed through it until she found 1814. “He was a slave trader. Did you know that?”
She guessed from his hesitation that he did know.
He poked through another crate. “Many families have that trade in their background. Lord Liverpool’s father was a slaver, but he worked for passage of the law that made it illegal.”
“Did my grandfather work to pass that law?”
“I do not think so.”
“It was why my father broke with him. In America, my father wrote and spoke against it. We almost moved to Philadelphia so that we would not live in a city that had a slave port, but he believed he could do more good in Baltimore.” She pulled at the ties binding the two pasteboards of the 1814 portfolio together.
A letter from her mother lay on top of the others. In response to an offer of financial assistance from Adam, she had refused for the same reasons her husband had never accepted any money.
And so, to get his way, to force his son’s family to accept who he was, he had left a huge amount to her, his granddaughter.
She knew what she had to do. It saddened her no matter how right and just and noble it was. Without the dream of her singing, she was not sure that she had anything left.
“My inheritance was built on slavery. You were correct, and using it will be a great joke rather than a great justice. The joke, however, was Adam’s.”
“He sold out of shipping long ago. Most of his fortune came from other things.”
But it had started there. She could not reconcile it, much as she ached to. Her conscience forced a choice that she dreaded. To have a dream within reach and then to voluntarily not grab it—
“I cannot accept it. I want you to sell out anything that you can, and give it to charity. When the funds pay out, give that away too.”
“It will be reckless to sell out, even if it is your desire. A court oversees my stewardship, not you. A court made up of men who will not understand or accept that I should agree to your direction, especially since it will leave you impoverished.”
“Are you saying that you will force me to accept this tainted fortune?”
“I am saying that the fortune will remain intact while I control it. When you begin receiving the income, you can give that away if you choose.”
“Fine. In the meantime, there is no reason for me to remain in England any longer. I want you to secure passage for Jane and me back to Baltimore.”
“I am not inclined to do that either.”
“Your inclinations do not interest me.”
“I think that you are making this decision too hastily, and perhaps for the wrong reasons. Furthermore, your first reason for coming, to see the estate settled, is still important even if you have decided the tainted money forces you to abandon the other.”
“I said nothing about abandoning my plans to train for the opera. I will find a different way to make it happen. One that does not defy my parents’ beliefs and sacrifices.”
“Now I am even less inclined to purchase your passage back to Baltimore.”
“In addition to being abducted, it appears that I am now a hostage. You merely delay the inevitable, to the vexation of us both. When I decide to do something, I find a way to accomplish my goal.”
He had gotten that resolute, stern expression again. It was pointless to try and sway him when he was like that, she already knew. Nor did she have the heart to try now. The last day had pummeled her spirit, and she had little heart for arguments.
To feign acquiescence, she gestured to the crates and changed the subject. “Did you find anything else of your brother’s?”
“I have not looked. This is your property.”
She rose on her knees. “Let us look now. I will help you. When did Adam build Woodleigh, and the friendship start?”
“Six years ago.”
“These will be the ones we want, then.” She lifted a heavy stack onto the floor.
Vergil’s hands quickly closed on the top four. He sat cross-legged and began flipping through their contents. He appeared so interested that it occurred to her that he had lingered with her now in the hopes that she would make this invitation.
She examined the two that were left. “This is odd. There are letters from Adam himself in these as well.”
“They are copies of letters he sent. At some point he probably adopted the practice even for private correspondence.”
“Most of these concern the building of Woodleigh. From their tone, I do not envy the architect. Have you found any to your brother?”
“Yes, but nothing surprising.” His tone suggested otherwise. She looked over to see him scrutinizing a letter with a frown. He appeared very serious and a little sad.
His honest, revealing expression disarmed her. It was easy to forget that he was not only a viscount and trustee, but also a young man who was never supposed to have the title and responsibilities he now bore. She wondered if he had welcomed that unexpected change in his life. Since it had come at the cost of his brother’s life, she suspected that guilt shadowed any joy he took in it.
“You can keep it,” she said. “Keep anything of his, or about him.”
He looked over at her. “Thank you.”
His gaze did not return to the letter. It stayed on her and she could not move her own away. The silence of the study pressed on her, but a primal song sounded like a silent melody that went on and on, taking over the space in which they sat too closely and too isolated.
She might have been back at the ruins, being held by him, looking up at a face made stern with passion. She half-expected him to cast aside the letter and reach for her.
Frightened of that impulse, and of the way her heart begged him to do it, she jumped to her feet and backed away to the door.
She awkwardly gestured to the crates. “You have my permission to examine all of it. We will trade. If I find any letters conc
erning your brother, I will give them to you. If you find any about my parents, you do the same.”
Not waiting for his agreement, she fled the room.
“Laclere.”
The melodic voice drifted to Vergil that afternoon while he climbed the steps to the terrace. Maria Catalani stood at the open door.
“Maria. You did not ride this morning?”
“I am well past the age when bumping along on some rude animal is amusing, caro mio, and when it comes to ruins, well, my country has them in abundance. And you?”
“I have business to attend.”
She fell into step when he passed into the drawing room. “You go to your studio? I will walk with you.”
The house was silent, emptied of its noisy guests. Catalani strolled beside him as if she crossed a stage. Her form had grown matronly in the last few years and the passionate voice had failed her, but she still knew her worth.
“Thank you for the invitation. I was pleased that you extended it, and Mrs. Gaston was kind to allow me to join her so we could make your little surprise for your sister work.”
“When I heard that you had arrived in London, I thought that the country might offer some rest after your journey. Also, as I told you yesterday, I had an ulterior motive besides Penelope’s surprise. I need a professional opinion, and yours is the best. What did you think of Miss Kenwood’s performance?”
“She is very talented, Laclere.”
“How talented?”
“You do not need me to tell you. Anyone with an ear can hear it. Anyone with a heart can feel it.”
“Some ears are better than others.”
“She needs training, of course. It will take some time. She also must learn the languages so the words have specific meaning for her, but she is intelligent and that will be easy. Her range at the upper levels may prove limited. Roles for mezzo-sopranos may prove her strength. She can have many years in opera, however. She has the talent and the determination and, most of all, the heart. Quite a find, Laclere. Are you going to ask me to take her back to Milan as my protégée?”
“Absolutely not, and I must ask that you not make such a suggestion to her.” Bianca had spoken of renouncing the inheritance and finding another way. He did not want Catalani to be that other way.
She studied his face. “You are not pleased with my assessment, I think.”
“I confess to hoping that it would be less positive. It would have simplified things.”
They had reached the library door across from the study. Maria considered him with a tilt of her head. “I think that I understand. You do not intend to allow this young woman her way, and my judgment was going to absolve you. If you have listened to her, your heart knew it would not turn out that way.”
Yes, his heart knew that, but he had been hoping that lust had been obscuring his judgment.
“She will not permit you to interfere, caro. When we spoke, I was very frank about the sacrifices, but she remains undeterred. Was that also to your plan? That she would seek me out and become discouraged by what I described? As I said, she has the determination. It is hopeless to try and stop her.”
“Perhaps, but it is my duty to try.”
“Your duty? Ah, I see. You must save her. Very charming and very male. I thank God no man saved me.” She shook her head and opened the library door. Hand on the latch, she turned and smiled with a warmth that made the years fall away. “What has happened to you, Laclere? Where is the young man of dreams and passion who came to my door with an armful of roses that day?”
The gentle scold provoked more nostalgia than anger. “Life happened, Maria. Duties happened. I grew up.”
“Deadening duties, from what I see and hear. I should have kept you as my lover longer than one summer, if you so quickly surrendered to such a fate.”
“I counted myself fortunate to have a summer. You had little taste for boys, as I remember.”
She closed the door and leaned against the wall. “You were so moved by the music, who could not be charmed? Have you lost that too? Is that why I had to come and tell you what would have been obvious to you years ago? Does it no longer speak to you?”
“Sometimes it speaks as powerfully as ever.”
“I am glad, caro. We should embrace whatever makes us young dreamers again, even if it is only for a few minutes now and then.”
She did not enter the library, after all, but strolled down the corridor toward the stairs.
Bianca huddled low on the divan, not daring to move. Even after the door closed again and the voices became low mumbles, even after silence fell, she stayed in her ball of arms and legs.
She couldn’t believe what she had overheard. Catalani and Vergil . . .
Astonishing. Astounding.
The hypocrite.
No wonder he assumed all performers became courtesans and mistresses. He probably had a whole string of them in his background, accumulated after that summer with Catalani. He probably had one ensconced in that manor up north, just as Charlotte speculated. It was isolated and discreet and no one would ever know.
Poor Fleur.
The scoundrel.
And yesterday morning at the ruins . . . This certainly shed an unpleasant light on that too. For all she knew, he was a predator keeping her nearby for the most dishonorable of reasons. He could be . . . He could be dangerous.
Prolonged silence indicated that Vergil and Catalani had left the corridor near the door. She untwisted herself and tried to accommodate this startling development.
She wasn’t going to solely blame herself for yesterday anymore. She had begun to do so, in part because of Fleur, in part because it had seemed an inexplicable lapse on his part when thought of any other way. But if he hadn’t been a saint when young, he probably had not truly become one later, and, in light of this news, the lapse had not been inexplicable after all.
It would be nice to blame him completely instead, but her memories wouldn’t let her. Fine. They both were to blame then.
Or not, depending on how you looked at it.
She didn’t feel inclined to blame anyone. That embrace and those kisses had been glorious and exciting. They had produced an intimacy such as she had never known, and a connection that seemed unbreakable. That was why she sensed his presence all the time, and why her heart beat so hard when he moved nearby. She admitted now that she had been hoping for some recognition that he also felt the invisible links forged by that brief passion.
She threw an arm over her eyes and groaned. An experience like that might transport her, but it would hardly turn a man like the Viscount Laclere inside out. He had once had the great Catalani as a lover. A few kisses and gropes with a raw recruit to passion could easily be forgotten.
She would simply have to forget as well. Clearly he expected her to.
She tried to fix on that decision. Her head was willing but her heart would not cooperate. She kept seeing that look in his eyes and experiencing anew the exciting magic of his embrace. Her chest filled with a hopeful joy that urged her to sing, and then emptied with a disappointing sadness that almost moved her to tears.
She sighed and sat up. She didn’t recognize the sad, confused person she had become. She needed to find the Bianca she had been before yesterday.
She would simply step backward and pick up the strands. She would renew her plan to make him send her away, only this time to Baltimore. Leaving had become essential now. She couldn’t live the next ten months like this, absorbed by a man who obviously regretted their behavior and only wanted to keep his distance from her.
She needed to settle matters quickly. She would have to do something very shocking, something Vergil could neither ignore or forget.
An obvious solution presented itself. Vergil could rationalize a lapse with himself by blaming himself, but he would hardly miss the implications if she lapsed again with another man soon after. He might have affairs with women like Catalani, but a good brother could not permit a Catalani to live with Cha
rlotte.
Who should the other man be? Not Nigel. Vergil might decide to call him out.
Dante?
She felt more like her old self than she had in twenty-four hours. Planning her next move helped keep her mind off the sadness that nibbled inside her.
Yes, Dante would do very well, and a rake would hardly disappoint her.
The next day the party spread out along the shores of the lake, enjoying a lazy afternoon. They had brought books and sketching pads with them in the carriages, and lots of parasols for the ladies. Dante and Cornell Witherby had stripped off boots and stockings and waded with fishing rods into the low water.
Dante walked out of the lake. She caught his eye while he dried himself. She smiled. After he pulled on his boots he came over.
She had never realized how susceptible men were. If he weren’t a rake, she might have felt guilty.
Dante lounged beside her. “You do not sketch?”
“I never learned. My education was not the typical drawing room variety.”
She noticed Vergil rising from his spot and meandering into the trees. As if his movement had been a cue, the other members of the party began regrouping. Pen and Catalani carried their parasols over to Fleur.
“Your walk in the lake must have been refreshing on this warm day,” she said. “I envy you.”
His lids lowered and he regarded her with that private look. She knew he was remembering her own dip in this lake the day he first arrived. It reminded her that she played a dangerous game here. She had better choose her moment with the greatest care.
“I tire of sitting. I think that I will take a turn,” she announced.
“May I join you?”
“That would be kind.”
The path formed a large circle through the trees and brush. She guided him in the direction opposite that which Vergil had taken.
“Will you be leaving with the others tomorrow?” she asked.
“I think that I will stay a few more days.”
“Charlotte says that you find the country boring.”
“This visit has been anything but, thanks to your company. And you? Can Laclere Park occupy you during the months ahead?”
The Saint Page 12
