by Liz Carlyle
Quin. Alice spoke the name as if it were a given. And thank God. Quin really would know what to do. Viviana felt a wave of relief pass over her.
“Thank you, Alice,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she pushed Felise toward the door. “Tell him…oh, please, tell him to hurry! I shall meet him on the Wendover road.”
Alice nodded tightly. “Cerelia is like to catch her death in this.”
Herndon whipped up his horses, and left.
By the time Viviana had changed into dry clothes and one of Chesley’s old greatcoats, her mount had been brought round. The sleet had turned into a cold, driving rain, which swept across the carriage drive in sheets.
“It will be dark soon, my lady,” said Wardell, shouting above the rain as he helped her mount.
Viviana nodded. “Watch for Lord Wynwood,” she shouted. Then she reined her mount into a tight circle and rode off down the carriage drive.
Quin was in his study trying to make sense of some of his father’s old account books, his mind almost numb from the rhythm of the rain, when Henry Herndon burst in through the French window, water streaming off his coat and hat.
“Bloody hell, man!” said Quin, springing from his chair. “What are you doing out in this?”
It took Herndon but a moment to explain. Alarm shot through Quin at once. “It will be pitch-dark in less than two hours,” he said anxiously. “There is no time to waste. Ring for someone to have my horse brought round.”
“I already left word at the stables,” said Herndon. “Your horse and mine.”
Quin shot him a quick, assessing gaze. “Change into dry clothes, then,” he advised. “You go out by the back gate. I’ll go round by the village road, then past the Watson cottage.”
“A good plan,” agreed Herndon. “Approaching from opposite directions, one of us is bound to see her.”
Quin was already stripping off his frock coat as he headed for the door. “If you find her first, Herndon, take her to the nearest house,” ordered Quin. “Here. Hill Court. The Watsons. Wherever hot water and a fire can be quickest had.”
“Yes, sir.”
Quin had his hand on the door and Herndon on his heels when the latter spoke again. “My lord, I should warn you that Contessa Bergonzi meant to go on ahead of us,” he said quietly. “The gentlemen were all from home. She was calling for her horse when I left Hill Court.”
Quin cursed audibly. “What the devil is she thinking?” he snapped. “A woman’s got no business out in a storm like this! She doesn’t even know these roads well.”
“I tried to point that out, my lord,” Herndon reported. “But she would not listen.”
Quin was already striding down the narrow corridor in the direction of the stairs. “Damned stubborn woman,” he muttered.
Herndon touched him on the shoulder just before he hit the first flight.
Quin spun around. “What?”
Herndon did not step back. “Have a care with Contessa Bergonzi, my lord,” he said gently, his hand still on Quin’s shoulder. “The little girl is, after all, her flesh and blood.”
“And what of it?” snapped Quin. “Cerelia is still just as lost. Still in grave danger.”
Herndon lifted one shoulder. “I have no children,” he said quietly. “I cannot imagine the terror that poor woman feels just now. Can you?”
Quin grappled with his own panic for a moment. To him, it felt very like terror. Outside it was cold, wickedly damp, and soon it would be dark on top of all else. There was little shelter along the Wendover road, unless Cerelia made it back to Lucy Watson’s, or circled six miles in the other direction and stumbled upon the vacant cottage. What were the chances of that? Already he was imagining the worst. Quinsy. Pleurisy. Lung fever. Were those fears more intense for Viviana? If they were, then God help her. “No, Herndon,” he said on a sigh. “No, I suppose we cannot imagine.”
The ride back to the Wendover road was but two miles on familiar ground. Sick with worry for Cerelia, Viviana spurred the big horse on, and he sprang willingly. They were going too fast for the weather, she knew. But Cerelia would be drenched to the skin by now, and likely terrified. Maternal instinct drove her deeper and faster into the driving rain. She only hoped Champion could see the road ahead a little better than she could.
A crossroads came upon them suddenly, the signposts unreadable through the torrent. Viviana turned right and pushed the horse hard uphill. But less than half a mile in, Viviana realized that her surroundings were not quite familiar. The hedgerows were higher and growing too near. The lane was too narrow. Panic shot through her heart. The wrong turn? Dear God, had she turned too soon? She had been this way but twice, once on foot with Lucy.
Abruptly, she pulled her mount up and reined him sharply around. Champion tried to obey, but it was futile. With the road awash, the shoulder was too soft. Amidst the wet leaves and loosened stones, the horse lost his footing and had to scrabble for purchase. Viviana hadn’t a prayer of hanging on to the sidesaddle. She slid off and tumbled into the ditch, twisting one foot awkwardly beneath her, and wrenching the opposite wrist behind as she tried to catch her fall.
With a muttered curse, she tried to push herself up, but a blinding pain shot through her arm. For an instant, she simply lay there, stunned, dimly aware of the cold ditch-water which was soaking through Chesley’s greatcoat and even her heavy wool habit.
Cerelia! Her poor baby! The child was out alone in this hard, unforgiving English weather—and it was all Viviana’s fault. She dragged herself into a sitting position and clicked to Champion. The big horse obeyed, edging up to the side of the ditch, huffing anxiously through his nostrils. The stirrup dangled tantalizingly, just inches beyond Viviana’s grasp.
But what would she do if she caught hold of it? She could not remount, she did not think. And her wrist was of little use. How could she carry Cerelia? Tears sprang hotly to her eyes. The foot—the one she most needed—was sprained, if not broken. She would have to stay on her good leg, bearing her weight onto Champion. And she would have to walk back to Hill Court; to tell them that she had failed and that someone else must go out and do what she had been too incompetent to accomplish.
And then she remembered Quin.
Relief coursed through her. Herndon had gone to fetch him. At that very moment, Quin was already riding hard toward Cerelia; of that she had no doubt. And he would be looking for Viviana, too. He would not, however, be looking on this godforsaken little pig path. But he would press on, and eventually, he would find Cerelia. He was relentless when he put his mind to something. Yes, somehow, Quin would find her. She had to believe in that.
Viviana’s body was beginning to shake from the freezing cold water. Dio, she had to do something. What use would she be to Cerelia once Quin did bring her home, if she simply lay here and took ill with the cholera or whatever dread disease one got from lying in cold, nasty ditch-water.
Just then, Champion edged up another few inches. Viviana snared the stirrup, and somehow hauled herself up. The pain was remarkably bad. With Champion’s reins in one hand, and bearing her weight on the stirrup with the other, she managed to hobble a few feet back along the road. She set a course for Hill Court and began quietly to pray.
Fourteen
In which Lucy almost Lets It Slip.
Q uin was drenched by the time he reached Arlington Park’s gatehouse. Through the gloom, he could already see the glow of lamplight through the tidy village windows, and in Aunt Charlotte’s drawing room, too. Along the narrow lane to his left, shops and cottages lay still. The sign of the Black Lion swung wildly in its cast-iron bracket, the sound shrill and grating to his ears. Quin turned and nudged his horse in the opposite direction.
The rain did not let up and ran off his hat brim in tiny torrents. Along the main road, he saw no one, and reached the narrow country lane which led to Arlington’s evergreen forest without incident. Here, he dismounted and began to walk, calling Cerelia’s name into the hedgerows. It was poss
ible, he supposed, that she had sheltered there.
A small part of him wondered why he was doing this. Surely he could have sent out all the servants to comb the hills and forests—and quite possibly he still would do, if the child was not easily found. But a larger part of him was truly worried. He had developed a deep fondness for the girl. It was rooted, in part, in his love for her mother. And yet it went beyond that, in a way he could not quite explain, even to himself.
He wondered how far ahead of him Viviana was. He prayed the drenching rain would drive her to Lucy Watson’s, or perhaps even on to the cottage. There, a good fire was already laid in the hearth. He hoped she would think to light it.
He was heartsick over the bitterness with which he and Viviana had last parted. But what choice had she left him? Her emotional guard had been up, and for no real reason that he could see. He did not for one moment believe that Viviana was cowed by his mother. No, there was something else. Something far more painful than that, he thought. Perhaps it had something to do with her first marriage?
“All I know, caro,” she had said to him, “is that it is easier to marry a man whom you do not love than to marry a man who does not love you.”
Since that awful day, Quin had given her strange sentiment a great deal of thought and decided they were wise words indeed. It had been true even of him, had it not? Quin had been perfectly happy to marry Miss Hamilton, whom he had not loved. But if Viviana came to him now on her knees and begged him to have her, begged him to be a father to her children, and to protect her with his name and his honor for all of eternity—no, he would not do it. Not until she told him she loved him. He had not, however, given up in that regard. He had thought long and hard about Viviana during his trip to London with Herndon. And now he had, as Alasdair was fond of saying, one card yet up his sleeve.
But all that must be set aside for the moment, he reminded himself. Cerelia was all that mattered. He continued on foot for another two miles, calling first for Cerelia, then for Viviana. At last, however, he topped a high hill and looked down upon the Watson cottage, tucked neatly behind its stone fence, its every window aglow like a beacon of hope.
This, he prayed, was where he would find Cerelia. Lucy was a sensible woman. She would put the child in a tub of warm water by the fire and fill her belly with hot porridge. Feeling strangely hopeful, he hurried down the hill.
His heavy knock was answered by Lucy herself. Her eyes widened as Quin shook the water from his hat and ducked beneath the lintel to enter.
“My lord,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsy. “What on earth—?”
Through the wide kitchen door, he could see children seated at the table. Cerelia was not amongst them. He returned his gaze to Lucy, but his face must have fallen. “I’ve come about Cerelia,” he said. “Lucy, what can you tell me? Anything?”
Lucy’s expression faltered. “I—I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Surely you’ve seen Viviana by now?” he went on, panicked by Lucy’s blank look. “Surely you’ve heard?”
The confusion in Lucy’s expression cleared. “Ah, told you everything, has she?” Her voice went suddenly soft. “Well, thank God in heaven, my lord. It’s been a heavy burden to me these many years.”
For a moment, Quin simply stood there, dripping onto Lucy’s flagstone floor. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “We…we seem to be at cross-purposes here.”
Lucy suddenly went white. “I—I beg your pardon,” she said again. “I’m afraid…I’m afraid I mistook you. What is it you’ve come for, sir?”
Quin looked at her quizzically. “Cerelia got separated from the other children this afternoon,” he said quietly. “Hasn’t Viviana been by here looking for her?”
Still pale, Lucy shook her head. “There’s been naught come by here, my lord, since Mr. Herndon brought the wagons out this afternoon,” she whispered. “What can have happened to the poor child?”
“Yes, and what of Viviana?” he said grimly. “She should have been riding ahead of me. I hoped they would be here.”
Lucy touched him lightly on the elbow. Her color was returning. “Do come in by the parlor fire, my lord. You’ll catch your death in those clothes.”
He shook his head. “I must find Cerelia,” he said, slapping his hat back on his head. “And now Viviana, too. We’ll be lucky if the child doesn’t take a chill or worse.”
Lucy nodded and opened the door. “I’ll keep a lamp burning in the window, my lord,” she promised. “When you find them, bring them to me straightaway, and I’ll see they’re warmed up proper.”
Beyond the door, rain still spattered loudly. Quin gave a tight nod and ducked back out into the weather. Vaguely, he wondered what was wrong with Lucy Watson. There was something there in what she had said—something important that was escaping him. But just now he could think only of Cerelia and Viviana, of the urgent need to find them.
As darkness crept nearer, the rain finally eased, and he found himself at the foot of the old forest road. This was the way into the pines which Herndon would have taken. It was here, Lottie had said, that Cerelia slipped off the wagon and ran back into the trees. It was a long shot, surely. The road was clearly marked, such that even a confused child could have found her way back out again. But something, instinct perhaps, impelled him forward.
He remounted, and allowed the horse to pick his way up the rough, needle-slick path, for it was hardly what one would call a road. At last the rain slackened. He caught the scent of damp ashes well before he saw them. There was an old fire pit near the turnaround, he recalled. Someone had recently used it. Just Herndon, most likely. Still, hope drove him hard up the hill, bellowing Cerelia’s name into the gloom.
In the clearing, something which looked like a bundle of old rags lay near the steaming, sodden fire pit. He leapt from his horse, unstrapped the blanket, and rushed the rest of the way up he hill. “Cerelia?”
The bundle moved, and lifted up. A mop of bronze hair popped out beneath it, and two bereft blue eyes looked up at him. Quin fell to his knees, and dragged the child hard against him. “Cerelia, thank God!” he whispered. “Oh, child! Where have you been?”
At that, Cerelia burst into tears. Not knowing what else to do, Quin just held her tighter. Her entire body seemed to shudder against his. Quin pressed his lips to her hair and surveyed the scene.
The child had been huddled beneath some sort of old rug or horse blanket, it appeared. The fire was made of thick, heavy logs which had been barely burnt, then kicked hither and yon. Herndon’s work, he assumed. But it looked as though Cerelia had been industrious enough to prod it back to life for a while. A little heat yet radiated from the ground, and the scent of smoke was thick in the air.
“You were very smart, Cerelia, to rekindle the fire,” he said, patting her gently between her narrow shoulder blades. “Are you all right, my dear?”
Her sobs were like little gulps now. She felt like a fragile, almost ephemeral creature in his arms. Like something precious that might slip from his grasp at any moment. There was an awful knot in his throat, and his every instinct wished to protect her. At last, she lifted her head from his coat front.
“I—I thought someone w-would come back for me!” she sobbed.
He set his lips to her forehead. “And so they have, mouse,” he answered. “I’m sorry we were so slow.”
“I tried to c-catch up with the others,” she said between sniffles. “But when I got to the road, I—I couldn’t remember whether I was to go left, or go right. I got so scared. I did not know what to do.”
Quin bent his head to look at her. “And so you came back here, and stayed put, hmm?” he said. “Very wise. Now, let’s get you wrapped in a blanket and find a good, roaring fire.”
Cerelia snuffled loudly, and pulled away. It was then that he noticed her curled fist. “Am I g-going to be in t-trouble now?” she asked, staring at it.
Quin tipped her chin up with his finger. “Accidents happen, mouse,” he said. “Why wou
ld you be in trouble?”
Slowly, the child uncurled her fist. In the fading daylight, he could see something metallic pooled in her hand. She had been clutching it so hard, the big, square stone had left an almost brutal impression in her palm. Quin lifted it up, and studied it. The jewel looked lifeless in the gloom, but he recognized at once the strange fob Cerelia wore about her neck.
“Is this the thing you lost, Cerelia?” he asked quietly. “The thing you went back to search for?”
Mutely, the child nodded.
“Are you not supposed to have it?”
She shook her head.
“Then it is not yours?”
“No, it…it is mine,” she said. “Mamma gave it to me. A long time ago. It’s my magic ring. It has special powers. But she does not like me to wear it.”
Her mother gave it to her?
Why had Viviana lied? Cerelia had not simply “found” it. Nor was it paste and pinchbeck, he’d wager. A strange, surreal feeling was coming over Quin as he studied it. A kind of numbness—and yet not numbness at all. It was rather as if one’s leg had gone to sleep, and now all the feeling was flooding back, nerve by nerve, and hurting all the worse for it. Except that it was not his leg, but his entire body. His brain. His heart. A rush of emotion and suspicion which left him breathless. And then an agonizing certainty. He felt frozen to the ground, rooted to the forest floor with Cerelia still in his arms.
Just something Cerelia found. He could hear Viviana’s emotionless words echoing in his head. Lies. All lies.
He held the large ruby to what was left of the light. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest. “What happened to it, Cerelia?” he choked. “How…how was it damaged?”
A look which could only be described as fear sketched over her face. “My—my papà—Gianpiero—he got very angry,” she whispered.
“What did he do?” Quin’s voice was a raw whisper.
