Guilty Series (94 page)

Her sarcasm was ignored. “Good. Now, there is still the matter of your mother to be discussed.”

Lucia's pasted-on smile vanished at once, and she tensed with foreboding, knowing she was about to hear more horrid pronouncements about her life and her future. As if what she'd heard already wasn't insulting enough. “What about my mother?”

“You cannot go on living with her. I will make arrangements for you to stay with suitable people—”

She sat bolt upright on the settee. “What?”

“You must realize you cannot continue to stay
under your mother's roof. This is an unacceptable environment for any young woman about to be launched in English society. I have no doubt your mother would agree with me. In any case, you will be severing all ties with your mother—”

“I will do no such thing!”

“You must. Your husband will require you to do so in any case.”

“Any man who marries me accepts my mother. It is as simple as that.”

“No, it is not as simple as that. Your devotion to your mother is admirable,” he said, sounding anything but admiring, “but no British gentleman will tolerate it. Just the fact that you have been living with Francesca at all is bad enough, but every moment you continue to reside with her further damages your reputation.”

Lucia wondered what would happen to her reputation if she slapped Britain's most famous ambassador across the face. She folded her arms, set her jaw, and said nothing.

He gave a heavy sigh, watching her. “Miss Valenti,” he said in the wake of her silence, “it is highly inappropriate for me, as a gentleman, to speak of such matters to you, but I fear I must. Your mother is under the protection of Lord Chesterfield, a man to whom she is not married. It is he who pays for this house. Your mother is a demimondaine and is not accepted in good society. No gentleman is going to marry a young woman who keeps company with a courtesan, even if that courtesan is her mother.”

“I will not marry a man who does not accept my mother,” she said through clenched teeth. “I could never love such a man.”

His sound of derision was the last straw. Lucia jumped to her feet. “Yes, love. It is such an inconvenient thing for fathers and diplomats, is it not? But it is so. He will love me enough to accept my mother, or I will not marry him.”

He also stood up. “My orders are to have you removed from this house as soon as I can make suitable arrangements for you to stay elsewhere. As for love, we have already discussed that. Marrying for love is a luxury those of royal lineage can seldom afford. You certainly cannot.”

“You are wrong. I
can
afford to marry for love. I can also afford to wait as long as I must to find that love. In the interim, I can live in reasonable comfort. My mother, that wicked
courtesan
of whom you speak so disparagingly, is good enough at her profession to support me quite well. I will make no loveless marriage for my father's sake or yours. And damn my reputation!”

“You cannot hope to defy your father. You must marry.”

“I am perfectly willing to do so. Write to my father, Sir Ian, and tell him I shall marry when I find a man I love and who loves me. That is a task I am quite capable of managing without any help from you!”

With that, she turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Ian Moore,
a diplomat? If that hateful man was a diplomat, the world was in serious trouble.

 

Halfway up the stairs, Lucia turned on the landing and paused. From here, she could see the doorway to the drawing room reflected in the mirror on the wall, and she waited there until she saw Ian Moore go down the stairs to depart. Satisfied that the horrid man was finally gone, she went up to the second floor.

She encountered her mother halfway down the corridor as Francesca came out of her room, now completely sewn into her scandalously tight riding habit.

“Do not bother going down, Mamma,” Lucia said as she passed. “He's gone.”

“Without waiting to speak with me?” Francesca turned and followed her. “What did you say to him?”

“What any sensible woman would say,” she said over her shoulder as she walked into her own room. “I appreciate your offer to find me a husband, but I can find him without your assistance, thank you very much. Now go away.”

“Oh, Lucia!” Francesca groaned, closing the bedroom door behind them both. “I told you to be nice.”

“Do not lecture me, Mamma. This is partly your fault. You should have told me he was coming here and why.”

“I wanted to see him myself first and find out just what your father's plans are for you.”

“Get married as soon as possible. That is all.”

“And does your father have a particular man in mind?”

“No. This Sir Ian gets to choose. A gentleman, of course, a man of wealth and breeding, with an impeccable background and connections. Catholic, of course.” Still seething, Lucia began to pace back and forth in front of her bed. “You should have heard him, Mamma. He talked as if finding a husband is like choosing a horse. Hmm…good teeth, strong and healthy, excellent breeding…yes, he'll do. Get the priest.”

Francesca laughed. “Oh, my darling! I'm sure he didn't mean to imply anything of the kind.”

“Oh, yes he did. Cesare comes in August, and I am to be engaged by then to whichever appropriate gentleman Sir Ian can find. Do I have a choice? Are my wishes considered? No! A man is being paid to take me. I have never felt so humiliated.”

She stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Insufferable man. So cold, so haughty. So
English.
” She turned her head to look at her mother as the other woman sat down beside her. “He has orders from Cesare to move me out of this house, so that I can stay with
suitable
people.”

“A perfectly understandable action. And a wise one.”

“Not you, too? I won't go, Mamma.”

“You cannot stay here forever.” Francesca smiled a little and reached over to brush back a tendril of Lucia's hair. “My darling girl, ever since
you arrived on my doorstep a month ago, I have been wondering what to do with you. When Cesare married and set me aside, I made him give me his solemn promise to take care of you because I would not be able to do so. You could not live with me then, and it is not good that you live with me now.”

“But—”

“Listen to me, Lucia. I missed so much while you were growing up, only being able to see you at school in France a few times a year. I regret that I could not see you more.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Lucia said fiercely. “When I was a child, I could not live with you. I understand that. I always understood. But now—”

“It is no different now. It has been such a joy to have you here with me that I have been selfish, but the ambassador is right. Living here is hurting your reputation as a young lady.”

“I don't care about that.”

“I do. You are a grown woman, and a woman's reputation is everything. I know that from my own experience. My indiscretions put me beyond the pale, my parents disowned me, and I had to leave my home village. I went to Naples and became a woman on the town because I was ruined, and no man would marry me.” She paused, then went on, “It grieves me to see you starting down the same path.”

There was a hint of censure in her mother's voice, and it hurt. Lucia bit her lip and looked away.

“I understand you very well, Lucia,” Francesca went on. “You chafe under rules, especially your father's rules. But what happened in Bolgheri could haunt you forever, unless Sir Ian can prevent it. If he can arrange for you to stay with respectable people and provide you with worthy connections, your past indiscretions will not matter.”

She turned to meet her mother's gaze, dismayed. “You are making me go, then?”

“I won't force you.” She gave Lucia a rueful smile. “If I were a good mother, I would, but I am not a good mother, for I am not strict, not of a serious turn of mind, and certainly not a good moral example.”

“You are the most wonderful mother in the world.” She watched Francesca shake her head, and she stifled any denial her mother might have made. “You are, Mamma. Do you know why? You are the only person who loves and accepts me just as I am.”

“Of course I love you. That is why I advise you to go willingly. As I said, I won't force you, but Cesare could do so any time he likes. I would fight for you, but I would lose.”

“They are going to force me to marry, and I have no say, no voice. I do not want my husband chosen for me!”

“There are ways around that. A woman can always choose. Make your choice and get Sir Ian and your father to think it was theirs.”

“But I want a husband who loves me, Mamma.
How shall I find a man who loves me in only six weeks?”

Her mother smiled a little and caressed her cheek. “Any man who would not fall in love with you at first sight, my beautiful girl, is either blind or an idiot.”

Lucia's lips twisted in a wry smile. “You are biased, Mamma.”

“Perhaps, but I know men. You will have them lined up outside your door.”

“Sir Ian says any English gentleman, whether he loves me or not, will demand that I sever all ties with you. I refused.”

“My loyal daughter! No matter what happens, I would never disown you, Lucia, but I think you must disown me. At least for now. After you marry, we shall see.”

“What if I do not like the people with whom I am to stay?” she asked, grasping at straws. “What if they are awful to me?”

“They could not be worse than the nuns.”

Lucia started to argue further, but Francesca put a finger to her lips to stop her flow of protests. “I am asking you to make the most of this opportunity,” her mother said. “Go to balls and parties, meet young men, make friends, enjoy the rest of the season with respectable people and enjoy yourself. Who knows what may happen?”

Lucia sighed. “I hate having no power over my own life.”

“No power? What makes you think such a thing? My love, you have formidable weapons.
You have beauty and you have brains and you have a kind, loving heart. When a woman has those, it is the men who are powerless. The first thing you must do is get Sir Ian on your side. You have much charm, Lucia, much magnetism. Use it to persuade Sir Ian to allow you to make the choice of whom you marry.”

The idea of charming Sir Ian was almost intolerable. Lucia groaned. “Is there no other way?”

“I'm afraid not.”

She sighed and leaned her forehead against her mother's shoulder, resigning herself to the inevitable. “All right, Mamma. I'll go, if you wish it.” She lifted her head and scowled, still compelled to stand by her convictions. “But I won't stay with people who are horrible to me or look down at me.”

“I'm sure Sir Ian will agree to that.”

“And I won't marry a man just to be respectable, ease Cesare's conscience, and fulfill Sir Ian's duty.”

“Of course not.”

“I will marry only if I am in love with a man, and he is in love with me.”

“I understand.”

“He'd better be enough in love with me,” she added for good measure, “to acknowledge and respect my mother.”

“I hope so.”

“Hope is not a consideration, Mamma. That is how it's going to be. I just have to make Ian Moore see things my way.”

Francesca rose. “Honey, not vinegar, darling. Remember.”

“Mamma, I'll smother that man in honey. With any luck, he'll drown.”

“M
arrying for love?” Ian shook his head in disbelief as he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in his brother's library. “With the mess she's in, and only six weeks to find a husband, she expects to marry for love. I ask you, how absurd is that?”

“Very absurd indeed.” Dylan Moore leaned back in his chair and took a sip of brandy from the snifter in his hand. “And most unreasonable of a young woman to expect it.”

The hint of irony in his brother's voice did not escape his notice, and he flashed Dylan a glance of impatience as he paced. “It
is
unreasonable. She is the daughter of a prince, not the daughter of a shopkeeper. And her reputation is
in serious jeopardy. Doesn't she understand that?”

“I'm sure you made her aware.”

“For all the good it did.” Ian turned and started back across the hearthrug yet again. “Does she really think Prince Cesare is going to put her romantic notions above international politics?”

“Most young ladies don't give a damn about international politics. Baffling, I know, but there it is.”

“Given her past behavior, I suppose I should not have expected her to regard this matter with sense and judgment, but she is only hurting herself further by ignoring her position and her place in the world. Being illegitimate, she is not a princess, but she still has a duty to the House of Bolgheri. Prince Cesare is determined to get her married. She cannot hope to defy her father's wishes.”

Dylan laughed. “Spoken like a man who has no daughters. If my Isabel is anything to go by, the wishes of fathers don't matter much.”

Ian could not share his brother's amusement. “This isn't going to be easy, you know. British peers who are Catholic are a rare commodity.”

“But so are worthy Catholic women to marry them,” Dylan countered with breezy disregard for the difficulties.

“Wherever this girl goes, scandal follows,” Ian went on. “And if her religion, her tainted reputation, and her defiance are not enough cause for concern, there's the matter of her mother.”

With those words, he felt in need of a drink.
He stalked over to the liquor cabinet. “The House of Bolgheri is a valuable connection,” he said, pouring himself a glass of port. “And she does bring an enormous income. Given that, I can convince a worthy Catholic peer with wealth of his own to marry Miss Valenti despite her past indiscretions, but the matter of her mother makes everything much more difficult. She would have to sever all contact with the woman, something she flatly refuses to do. In fact, she demands that her future husband agree to accept Francesca as part of his family. Accept a notorious demimondaine into the family? God, what a notion!”

“It would make things deuced awkward at family gatherings,” Dylan agreed. “You're the one who knows all about proper protocol. Does a lord invite his demirep mother-in-law to the christenings of the children? Or not?”

Ian was in no frame of mind for his brother's sardonic wit. “Deuce take it, Dylan, can't you be serious for once?” He walked back over to the fireplace and resumed pacing, thinking out loud as he did so. “Once she is married, her husband will handle her and the matter of her mother as he sees fit. But until then, her relationship with Francesca is my problem. I don't wish to part the girl from her mother by force, but it seems I must.”

“Not the most diplomatic thing to do.”

“No, but given her defiance, I may not have a choice. Every moment she continues to live with her mother damages her further and makes my
task harder. If I am to fulfill my duty, I must first see that she is accepted into good society, and that means she cannot remain in Francesca's household.”

“So what are you going to do with her?”

“That's the crux of it. Taking on the job of chaperoning a young woman is a huge responsibility. Given the girl's past actions, it will take a great deal of persuasion for some matron to take it on. If the girl gets into trouble, her chaperone will come under criticism as well.”

“You'll find someone, I'm sure.”

“I daresay, but I don't have much time. And the girl is not in any frame of mind to cooperate.”

“Do you blame her?”

“I expected her to face facts and be sensible. Instead, she was impertinent and demanding and rebellious by turns. It astonished me that a young lady of breeding would behave in such a way.”

“Is it really so surprising, given how autocratic and high-handed you were about it all?”

“I was not autocratic. Nor high-handed.” When he saw Dylan raise an eyebrow in disbelief, Ian went on, “As I told you, time is short, and I put the truth of her situation to her in a straightforward fashion. I got nothing but impudence and resentment leveled at me in return. At twenty-two years of age, she ought to have developed some seriousness of mind, but no. The girl has an unbelievably reckless disregard for her virtue,
her position, her duty, and her future.” He took another turn across the hearthrug. “Why?” he muttered to himself. “Why do the Italians always have to be such a problem?”

“It's not that she's Italian,” Dylan said, sounding amused. “It's the fact that she's a woman that's got under your skin.”

Those words brought Ian to an abrupt halt beside the fireplace, and the image of his card being tucked into the cleft of Miss Valenti's bodice flashed through his mind. He took another swallow of port. “I don't know what you mean.”

“From what you described, you discussed this situation with her in your terms. International relations, political ramifications, duty, honor.”

“And?”

“What does she care? From her point of view, here is some man she has never met, laying down the law on her father's behalf about her life and her future, talking to her as if she were an inconvenient problem to be dispensed with as quickly as possible. No wonder she was resentful. Any woman would be.”

That was nothing but the truth, and Ian knew it. He looked at his younger brother, summoning his most dignified air. “It seems I made a slight diplomatic miscalculation.”

“To say the least. What were you thinking?”

He hadn't been thinking, at least not about anything but getting this petty little problem off his plate. “I will not repeat my mistake, I assure
you. When I meet with that young woman again, I intend to apply the first rule of diplomacy.”

“Which is?”

“Get what I want, but make her think she's getting what she wants.”

“Perfectly sound. Just remember you are not negotiating a trade agreement with Portugal.” Dylan took a swallow of brandy. “If you want my advice—”

“I don't.”

“Don't ever forget she's a woman.”

The memory of Lucia Valenti's generous curves and cherry-red mouth were still quite vivid in Ian's mind. Forget she was a woman? He downed the last of his port.
Not bloody likely.

 

The following morning, Lucia was not surprised to receive a note from Sir Ian, stating that he would call upon her that afternoon, that it would pain him to cause her any inconvenience, but expressing the fervent hope, as he put it, that she would be available to meet with him. A very diplomatic note, but dropped in the midst of all the polite phrases was the casual mention of a report he was writing to her father about her situation.

Lucia tapped the note against her palm, thinking over her own next move. She would cooperate with her father's plans, but on her own terms, and that meant finding a man who loved her. Love could not be forced, so her only choice was to take her mother's advice, stay with respectable people, go to parties, meet young men, and enjoy
herself. Along the way, perhaps love would find her. One thing she was not going to do was stop seeing her mother. She intended to visit Mamma whenever she wished. That meant finding a chaperone she could get around. Sir Ian just had to see the situation her way.

He might be dictatorial, haughty, and cold-hearted, but he was still a man.
Sweet as honey,
she reminded herself that afternoon as his name was announced and he came into the drawing room. “Excellency,” she greeted with a curtsy much more deferential than her last one. She sat down and indicated for him to sit opposite her.

“Miss Valenti,” he said as he took the offered chair, “I fear that we got off to rather a bad start yesterday, and I would very much like to remedy that.”

“As would I.” A little flattery, she thought, a little bit of acting like the misguided but contrite girl, with a dash of making him feel important thrown into the mix, and she'd be in control of this whole situation. She smiled at him. “Sir Ian, I feel the same way. I cannot think what came over me yesterday. Surely you and I can find ways to compromise.”

“I am certain we can.” He paused, then said, “Perhaps we should begin with a discussion of where you are going to live for the remainder of the season. Have you given that any thought?”

Perfect,
she thought. “Oh, yes. Upon reflection, I know that you were right in much of what you said. I realize my mother's house is not an
appropriate place for me to be.” She spread her hands wide in a gesture that asked for understanding. “I love my mother, and I have had little opportunity to visit with her over the years. I have a strong resistance to leaving her.”

He leaned forward, eager to accept her point of view. “Of course. Your affection for your mother and your reluctance to be parted from her are understandable. You have a woman's tender heart.”

Lucia pressed her hand to that tender heart, well aware of what such a gesture accentuated. After all, in the getting of her way, a woman had to use whatever weapons she had as effectively as possible. When Sir Ian's lashes lowered a fraction, she hoped he was appreciating two of her very best weapons.

“It pains me to leave Mamma and move in with strangers,” she went on, “but I recognize that I must. The first step, then, is to determine with whom I might stay. I am sure you move in the finest circles of society. What is your opinion?”

He returned his gaze to her face. “There are several excellent possibilities. In our new spirit of compromise, perhaps I should outline them for you, and you choose which sounds most appealing?”

“That is so considerate of you.” She gave him a look of gratitude. “Perhaps you might begin with your own preference?”

“It is your preference that matters, Miss Valenti.”

The thought crossed her mind that if they kept up all this mutual consideration much longer,
both of them would be nauseous. “You are too kind, Sir Ian, but guide me, if you would.”

“The Countess of Snowden is one possibility you might consider. Her background is impeccable, and any young lady she chaperones would be accepted everywhere.”

“What is she like?”

“A most sweet lady, and a most proper one. She speaks very slowly, and she's a bit deaf, but after all, she is nearly seventy. She doesn't attend many events in the evenings, but if you play piquet, she will adore you. Her home is several miles outside of London, but after I have chosen several suitable young men for you to meet, they can call upon Lady Snowden and yourself without too much trouble. Though she lives a bit far from any amusements, she has a fine barouche and would be happy to take you out in her carriage once or twice a week. I would be most amenable to leaving you in her hands.”

“She sounds a most suitable chaperone,” Lucia answered, thinking just the opposite. Her age was a good thing, but if the woman lived outside the city, there would be no way to get out and see Mamma without enormous risk. No, Lucia didn't think she'd be staying with Lady Snowden.

“Tell me about the others you have considered,” she suggested. “After all, I must make a judicious choice.”

“Of course. Lady Deane is another possibility. The baroness is a most hearty and invigorating woman. She has a strong constitution and believes
in long walks in the fresh air every morning at sunrise. Exercise, she says, is most beneficial and wholesome. She's a rather stern taskmaster, but in my opinion, that develops one's character.”

“I am sure my character is in need of some strengthening,” Lucia said with a straight face. “My past behavior, I admit, has been rather…impulsive.”

“Lady Deane would make certain you made no social faux pas, so you may put your mind at ease on that score. She would watch over you most carefully.”

“I have no doubt. And I do adore waking at dawn.” She paused, opened her eyes very wide, and bit her lip, hoping she looked like the weak and helpless female. “But I am hesitant about the taking of exercise. After all, it is men who should be the strong ones.”

She tilted her head and let her gaze roam over the wide shoulders and chest of the man sitting before her, and she did not need to feign an appreciation for his physique. She hated to admit it, but his body was quite splendid. “Men of strength and power,” she went on in a voice like butter, “men such as you, Sir Ian, are so appealing to the feminine…heart.”

He glanced down again, shifted in his chair, and looked away. Lucia smiled, knowing that right now her heart was the last thing he was thinking about.

She heaved a sigh and shook her head as if coming out of an admiring reverie. “But I di
gress. Forgive me. Have you any other suggestions?”

He seemed to come out of rather a daze himself, and it took him a moment to answer. “There's Lady Monforth, of course. That would be a perfect situation for you. The marchioness is a most proper chaperone, and her daughter, Sarah, is only a few years older than you, so you would have a companion. Their London address is in the midst of Mayfair. Most fashionable.”

And probably walking distance from her mother's house. Lucia felt a glimmer of relief. “That sounds most promising. What is the daughter like?”