by Liz Carlyle
“He told her himself?” Quin echoed. “And you—what did you tell her?”
The overwhelming grief swept in on her again like a rushing tide, dragging at her body, making her shoulders sag and her heart sink. “I told her that her father was an Englishman,” she quietly confessed. And that I loved him with all my heart, as he loved me in return.
“Go on,” he prodded.
She drew a deep, shuddering breath. “And I told her that he was very handsome and very rich, but that his parents would not let us marry, and so I had to return to Italy.”
He gaped at her incredulously. “But—But Viviana, that is just not true!”
“It is exactly true,” she returned, her voice soft. “You said they would disapprove, perhaps even cut you off. You said they wished to arrange a marriage for you to a suitable English girl. Quin, per amor di Dio, do not let us fight about it now—but did I somehow misunderstand you all those years ago?”
For an instant, he hesitated. “I—I don’t know what my parents would have done,” he admitted.
But Viviana could not let him off the hook that easily. “Did I somehow misunderstand you, Quinten?” she repeated.
At last, his eyes fell. “No, not entirely,” he answered. “It would have been difficult. But perhaps we could have seen it through, Vivie.”
“Perhaps,” she softly echoed. “Alas, Quinten, one cannot raise children on ‘perhaps.’ They must have certainty. They must have security. And, if at all possible, they must have a family. Cerelia had those things, Quinten. And I sacrificed in ways I should sooner die than talk about in order to give them to her. So do not speak to me, caro, of ‘perhaps.’ That word cannot be permitted to exist in Cerelia’s life.”
“Very well, then.” The words were still curt, but some of the fight, if not the inner rage, had left him, she thought. He opened his hand and let the chain slither through his fingers to pool in her lap. “But I am not speaking of perhaps now,” he continued. “I am speaking of a certainty. I mean to play a role in my child’s life. I mean to be her father. I shall give you time, Viviana, to accustom yourself to that notion, too.”
She lifted one arching black brow. “How very kind of you.”
He nodded curtly. “I shall bid you farewell for the time being,” he said. “Send word to me tomorrow when Cerelia is awake. I will wish to visit her.”
Reluctantly, Viviana returned his nod. He meant to leave her no choice, it seemed. “I shall send someone, si,”
And before she could utter another word, Quin Hewitt had slammed the parlor door and was gone.
Fifteen
Lady Alice and the Gypsy Curse.
Q uin returned to Arlington Park in a turbulent frame of mind. He did not notice that the rain had vanished, and the wind had quieted. He did not feel the deep chill which had set in in earnest, or smell the promise of snow, which now clung fast to the air. He did not appreciate the pure and unexpected stillness of a holy night as it enveloped the land all about him.
Instead, he could think only of Viviana, of what he perceived as her betrayal, not just of him, but of Cerelia, too. They cut to the bone, both the anger and the aching sense of loss. And yet he was wise enough to comprehend that he walked a sharp, perilous edge between his outrage on behalf of Cerelia and his hatred of Viviana.
He hated her because she had not loved him. After nine long years of misery, did it still come down to something so simple, and so petty? A better man would have admitted it, perhaps, and walked away. He was not a better man. He was filled with a burning desire for revenge. What he felt for Viviana would never die. Instead it would turn caustic again, and devour his heart from the inside out. The thought tortured him, even as he gave his horse over to his groom, and walked silently up the steps into his house. His very big, and relatively empty, house.
Alice found him long hours later, drinking brandy by the fire in his private sitting room. She pecked lightly on his door and came in without permission. He turned at once to scowl at her. Alice already wore her nightdress and wrapper. Her hair was down, her long bronze tresses so silken they reflected the lamplight, reminding him of Cerelia. How in God’s name had he missed all the signs?
“Is it now the fashion, Alice, to walk in on gentlemen in the privacy of their bedchambers?” he asked.
Alice slid into the chair opposite him without invitation. “This is not your bedchamber,” she returned, tucking one foot underneath her, as had been her childhood habit. “You did not come down to dinner. Mamma was worried.”
Somehow, he smiled. “And you were not?”
Alice shook her head. “Very little,” she admitted. “You are far more stalwart than Mamma has ever given you credit for—to her great dismay of late.”
Quin gave a muted smile. She was speaking, of course, of his having backed their mother down on the issue of Henry Herndon. Pensively, he swirled the last of the brandy in his glass and wondered if perhaps he should have taken a stand sooner. Perhaps he should have stood up for Alice years ago, when his parents had arranged her marriage to John, announcing it as a fait accompli, and ignoring Alice’s tears.
But he had not dared interfere, just as he had not dared tell them about Viviana. And look what his cowardice had cost all of them. Alice had spent a decade of her existence married to a man she could not love, consigned to a life of longing for the one she adored. Viviana had been compelled to wed one whom she not only did not love, but affirmatively loathed—at least that was the conclusion Quin was fast coming to. And Cerelia…ah, Cerelia. She had paid perhaps the greatest price of all.
“Quin?” His sister’s voice came as if from a distance. “Quin, are you all right?”
“Well enough.” He snatched up his glass and polished it off. “Just tired.”
She looked at him appraisingly. “I do not believe you,” she said. “What happened tonight after you brought Cerelia home? You do not seem yourself. Is it…is it something to do with Viviana?”
Quin could not bear to look at her. “Blister it, Alice, do not meddle in my business.”
But for an instant, he considered telling her. The truth was, he thought, fixing his gaze on the fire, Alice’s sympathy would almost make it worse. He felt pathetically like a child again, as if he’d fallen, and was waiting for his elder sister to pick him up and dust him off once more. But Alice could not help him now. No one could. His rage toward Viviana Alessandri was eclipsed only by his own self-loathing.
Alice sensed his unease, and turned the topic. “Did you have a hot bath, then?” she asked lightly. “Did you get something to eat? You should, you know. Even dashing heroes, Quin, must take care of themselves.”
“Mrs. Prater sent up a tureen of soup.” Quin tore his gaze from the fire and looked at Alice. “I’ve been abusing my body all my life, my dear—hardened it in hellfire, you might say—so it will take a little more than a long, wet ride in a rainstorm to do me any harm. But there is nothing heroic about it.”
Alice propped her chin in her hand, watching as he yanked the stopper from his decanter. He could sense her disapprobation as he poured another measure of brandy. “Celebrating early, are we?” she asked.
He lifted one brow and kept pouring. “Good Lord, Alice,” he muttered. “What have we to celebrate?”
Alice looked a little hurt. “Oh, only my wedding day!” she chided. “I hope you shan’t have a sore head tomorrow morning when you give me away to Henry. If you do, Quin, keep it to yourself. Do not you dare ruin my ceremony, do you hear?”
Holy God. Quin set the decanter down with an awkward thunk. Alice was to be married tomorrow?
Alice was looking mildly irritated now. “Quin, this is Christmas Eve,” she complained. “I vow, you seem not to attend anything anyone does or says nowadays.” She shoved her hand into the pocket of her wrapper, and extracted a small package. “Here, I got you a Christmas gift. I asked Henry to bring it back from London—though perhaps I oughtn’t have bothered.”
“No, you ought
n’t have bothered,” he agreed, taking the package from her outstretched hand. “But I thank you, Allie. I’m very sorry to have forgotten about tomorrow.”
Alice looked somewhat placated. “Well, open it.”
He lifted the lid of the small box. Nestled inside was an ornate silver vesta case, engraved with their family crest. Gingerly, he thumbed it open. It was filled with matches.
“Those are the new, less odorous kind,” said Alice proudly. “One can find them only in London and Paris, you know. Viviana told me about them. As to your old case, well, it is not very attractive, is it?”
Quin managed to grin. “It has had a hard life,” he admitted. “Much like its owner. I shall enjoy this new one greatly, Alice. I thank you.”
She relaxed back into her chair, looking pleased with herself.
“I have something for you, Allie,” he said, rising from his chair and going to his desk. He returned with a thin box made of inlaid rosewood. “This is as much a wedding gift as a Christmas gift, I daresay,” he explained. “I just saw it, and…well, I wished you to have something special for your wedding day.”
Eyes alight, Alice opened it, and gasped. On a bed of black velvet lay a triple strand of pearls, big ones, each strand a little longer than the one above it. The heavy gold clasp was in the shape of two clasped hands, with a diamond mounted on each side. “Dear me!” whispered Alice. “This is…well, this is quite something, Quin. And that clasp! How lovely! One hardly knows whether to wear it in front, or in the back.”
“I thought the diamonds would show to good effect when your hair is up,” he explained. “I am sorry, Allie. So very sorry you have had to wait so long for a life with Henry. Perhaps—perhaps I ought to have done something sooner.”
“Such as what?” Alice looked bemused. “Shoot John? He was pompous, Quin, but even he did not deserve to die.”
Quin smiled, but it did not last. “I meant I should have stopped your marrying him altogether,” he explained. “I should have stood up for you, Allie. I should have done…something.”
“Oh, Quin.” Her voice was so soft. “Oh, my dear, you must not torture yourself over that, of all things. John’s father was Papa’s best friend. They meant us to marry from the cradle, and there was no stopping them. Quin, you must know that. Tell me you do.”
His smile soured. “I don’t know that,” he said quietly. “Because I never tried. And as soon as I was able to escape Papa’s thumb, I just…went away, and lived my own life in London. And a rather meaningless life it has turned out to be.”
Alice closed the rosewood box and folded her hands atop it. “I have no notion, Quin, what you can be thinking,” she answered. “But you seem mired in some sort of odd self-loathing tonight. Something which I have never seen in you before. I—I cannot like it. Pray stop flogging yourself, and remember how things really were.”
Quin grew silent for a moment, and drank down half his brandy. He had had more than was wise, perhaps, given his strange, melancholy mood tonight. For an instant, he hesitated. “Alice, I wish to tell you something.” The words sounded abrupt, even to him. “Something in the greatest of confidence. Something I need to entrust to you.”
Alice looked surprised. “By all means.”
Fleetingly, he closed his eyes. “It is about Viviana,” he began. “She…she and I—”
Alice held up one hand. “You need say no more, Quin,” she interjected softly. “I have already guessed. Anyone with eyes can see that you are in love with her. Even Mamma has begun to suspect.”
He laughed, but it was a harsh, derisive sound. “That transparent, am I?” he said. “But no, that is not it. What little there was between Viviana and me has ended, and rather bitterly. Mamma need have no fear of being saddled with yet another unwelcome in-law.”
Suddenly, Alice’s hand reached for his and clasped it tightly. “Perhaps you misjudge Mamma, Quin,” she said gently. “She…well, she is changing toward Henry. And whilst she is wary of Viviana, she does not dislike her. Indeed, she has made one or two very pretty remarks about her of late, and was very taken with Signor Alessandri at Uncle Ches’s party.”
“It does not matter,” he said, withdrawing his hand, and returning it to his brandy. “It is only the child which concerns me now. Cerelia, I mean. She is…well, she is mine, Alice.”
“Good God!” said Alice. She set her pearls aside and leaned nearer. “How in heaven’s name did that happen?”
Quin managed a sour smile. “The usual way.”
“Oh, Quin!” whispered Alice. “Oh, Quin, surely…surely you did not—”
“Abandon her?” he interjected. “Bloody hell, Alice. I hope you know me better than that. Viviana left me and returned to Venice. I expected us to be together forever—at least, that was the assumption I made in my young, not-very-experienced brain. But Viviana wished to marry. I refused her. So she left me, never telling me…never telling me the truth. About anything.”
Alice blanched, and set a hand atop her stomach. “Well, you won’t wish to hear this, Quin,” his sister said quietly. “But I know just how she felt. Even knowing that Henry loved me, I was afraid to tell him the truth. Even now, Quin, I wish we were marrying only because we choose to, not because we must. But until this child was conceived, he refused me. So there will always be a little part of me…that will wonder. Can you not understand?”
“At least Henry was given a choice, Alice.” Quin’s voice was raw with suppressed emotion. “At least you had the courtesy to tell him and give him the option of raising his own child. Viviana simply married elsewhere and passed the child off as belonging to another.”
Alice looked askance at him. “That was an arranged marriage, Quin,” she answered. “Viviana told me her father arranged everything. And I cannot think that Viviana would deceive someone so. I am sure her husband knew, Quin, what he was getting into.”
“He must have wanted her very desperately, then,” Quin replied. “But he was no father to Cerelia. The child is badly wounded, Alice. I think…I think he was cruel to her. Her eyes, when she mentions his name—oh, God. It is almost more than I can bear.”
Alice’s color had not returned. Despite his turbulent emotions, Quin almost wished he had not burdened her. “What—what is it that you wish of me, Quinten?” she asked. “I am relatively certain we are not having idle chitchat.”
He shook his head. “I hardly know, Alice,” he answered. “I just thought…well, I just thought that someone else in this family should know. Cerelia is a part of us, Alice. I have a duty to her now. God forbid something should happen to me, I…I just wanted someone else to know the truth.”
Alice touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Perhaps, my dear, we ought to leave well enough alone.”
Her words, and their implication, were clear. “Oh, it is far too late for that,” he said grimly. “Bergonzi disowned the child to her face. But I do not know if he disinherited her. I do not know if there is money set aside for her education, or—or for her dowry. For anything. I just do not know. And it worries me, Alice.”
“I collect that Viviana is a wealthy widow, Quin,” said Alice. “Exceedingly wealthy, though she is hardly vulgar enough to speak of such a thing. Bergonzi doubtless agreed to generous marriage settlements. Or perhaps their laws are different from ours? Perhaps a widow inherits all. Or singing is more lucrative than one might guess. In any case, you need not worry about Cerelia in that way, at least. If Bergonzi disinherited the child, Viviana will manage very nicely for her.”
Quin dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Of course you are right. I just feel this need to do right by the child since it seems so much wrong has been done her already.”
“A notion which I greatly respect,” said his sister. “And you may trust that should all else fail, Henry and I will see to Cerelia’s welfare. You know that we will, do you not?”
Solemnly, he nodded. “I know that you will, Allie,” he said quietly. “I trust you to d
o the right thing.”
Alice gave a weak laugh and set her palm to her forehead. “Dear God, Quin,” she said. “How does life get so convoluted? How is it when we are so perfectly certain of our paths, God snatches up the pieces of our lives and throws everything askew?”
Somehow Quin, too, managed to laugh. “It is all like a bad game of hazard gone horribly wrong, is it not?” Then, even though he knew he should not, he refreshed his brandy yet again. “Do you remember, Allie, that silly story Merrick told at Mamma’s dinner party last month?”
Alice lifted one brow. “At your betrothal dinner, do you mean?” she murmured. “I recall that something Merrick said had poor Uncle Ches in stitches, but I did not quite get the gist of it.”
“Indeed, Chesley could not stop laughing,” he agreed. “You see, a Gypsy put a curse on us.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Alasdair, Merrick, and me,” Quin clarified. “September last. We three were off on a lark, an illegal boxing match out in Surrey.”
“Merrick attended a boxing match?” she said incredulously. “You two scoundrels, I can easily see. But Merrick? Never.”
“Well, he shan’t do so ever again, I’m sure,” said Quin. “Not with his brother. Alasdair got caught playing tickle-tail with the blacksmith’s wife, and the chap decided to kill us all with a pair of old blunderbusses.”
Alice grinned. “How frightfully exciting! I must remember to tell Mamma.”
Quin shot her a dark look. “I cannot think you serious,” he said. “In any case, this Gypsy allowed us to hide in her tent.”
At that, Alice burst into giggles. “You had to hide—?”
“Yes, but in return, she made us show her our palms and pay to have our fortunes read.” He paused to smile acerbically. “At the time, it seemed quite comical.”
