The Saint (9 page)

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 smiled 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

V
ergil 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.”

“Eager, were you?”

“The city has gotten raucous the last few days. Demonstrations daily. Lots of arrests. Some country air will do me good. The muse gets petulant if there are such distractions.”

“I trust that you will not be distracted here. There is breakfast waiting, but you must feed your muse in isolation. My sister has not risen yet to do the hostess duties.”

Witherby smiled vaguely at this reference to Penelope. He knew that Vergil knew what was up, and Vergil knew he knew, but a man did not discuss another's pursuit of his married sister, even if they were old friends.

“You will be happy to know that the gathering is artistic, as one would expect from Pen,” Vergil said.

“The countess's parties are always delightful. I expect this one to surpass all others.”

Vergil decided not to speculate on just how much delight Witherby might be anticipating. A big, quiet country house offered all sorts of opportunities for privacy.

He firmly shut contemplation of that out of his mind.

“You are dressed for riding,” Witherby observed. “I am keeping you.”

“A walk first, then a ride. Go and settle yourself as best you can. St. John is here, by the way, and he normally comes down early, too, so you should not be bored too long.”

With a happy, jaunty stride, Witherby aimed for the house. Vergil waited until he was out of sight, then turned and headed after Bianca.

When she came into view, he slowed so that he would trail behind her.

He followed out of concern for her safety, but admitted that he also wanted to determine whether Nigel waited somewhere up ahead.

A mile into the trees she turned onto a western path. He realized that she headed toward the ruins. Not a good sign. The medieval castle provided an ideal spot for couples to meet.

She was nowhere in view when he stepped into the high grass around the remains of Laclere Park's early fortifications. The keep survived as half a shell, and only one section of the old battlements endured, with the wall down in places and crumbling in others. Large stones scattered the overgrown clearing that had once served as the bailey. Of the whole structure, only a single, square wall tower still stood in reasonably safe condition.

Memories of childhood play tugged nostalgically, reminding him of the easy bond that he had once shared with Dante, and which secrets and neglect had almost destroyed. He scanned for signs of Miss Kenwood.

Suddenly a muffled, sweet sound floated through the morning silence. It rose and lowered like a gentle wave on the breeze, sending eddies out to surround him. He followed it to its source in the square tower and stepped through the stone threshold.

Sound submerged him, pitching off the walls and vaults. Above in the guards' chamber, Miss Kenwood practiced her scales, her voice gaining volume with each recurrent rise. He paused and listened to the repetitious climb of an instrument being tuned and warmed.

She stopped and he heard her speak. To Nigel? The man might use her music to entice her here. If so, she was in no immediate danger. He doubted that she would set aside her primary passion in order to explore other ones right now.

The sound broke again, pouring down the stairs. Not scales now, but a Rossini aria.

The melody washed through him. Precise and disciplined, like a bird's elaborately textured song, it drenched the mind and flooded the heart and churned indefinable sentiments the way the best music always did. The sensual undertones in her voice inundated a hidden reservoir that he had been struggling to keep dammed.

Almost involuntarily, his legs took him up the dark stairway toward the siren who unknowingly lured him toward a forbidden shore.

She stood alone in the chamber, her back to him, framed by the lines of walls tapering up to the stone vaulted ceiling. No Nigel. No one at all. She must have been speaking to herself.

He rested his shoulder against the portal's frame, to watch and listen. He wished that he could see her face, but his memory provided the radiant expression that he had witnessed that day when she performed in the music room.

He did not fight his reactions. He would have been incapable of doing so even if he sought to. Instead he let her notes raise a tide that submerged everything in the world except her pure passion and his own astonished desire.

It felt so good. Transporting. Glorious. Her voice took over her body and dissolved its substance until only the singing existed. The stones enriched the timbre like no other room ever had. She wished that she could bring Catalani here.

It ended too soon, and she regretfully held the last note longer than the score required. It hung above her, dripping like a single bud's nectar into her exposed spirit. And then it was over, leaving her spent and a little melancholy.

She abruptly sensed that she was not alone. Fearing that Dante had followed her, she turned with misgivings.

The viscount leaned casually against the portal opening, arms crossed over chest, watching her. He looked very handsome there, and somewhat intense despite his nonchalant pose.

“Did you follow me here, Uncle Vergil? To spy on me?”

“I thought of it as protecting you, but yes, I followed.”

“Surely I am safe at Laclere Park. Your bold poachers must have moved on or switched to traps. There have been no firearms shot this last week.”

“If you know that, you must come here often. Always to sing?”

The chamber had a window, no more than an arrow slit. She moved toward it, away from him. The stones heightened nuances in his tone that made her cautious. His eyes carried a hooded expression that she could not read. His presence struck her as dangerous. A ridiculous reaction to have, but she could not shake it.

She examined the view, avoiding his fixed regard. “I do not accept the situation that makes you think that you have a right to quiz me. Yes, I come here often, usually in the morning like this. I found this tower one day while riding. And yes, I come to sing.”

“Alone?”

She looked back over her shoulder. “You thought perhaps I arranged assignations here with Nigel? You followed to protect me from any improper intentions?” The notion made her want to giggle. Such careful protection of her virtue on the grounds, while his own brother accosted her in the library. “You missed your ride to no purpose. The convenience of this tower for such meetings never occurred to me. I shall have to keep it in mind for the future.”

“I doubt that you will. You would not have time to practice then. I never noticed before, but this chamber affects sound the way the ancient Norman churches do. Whatever your cousin's potential attraction, these stones hold more.”

“Perhaps he will come to listen. As you did.”

He pushed away from the wall with a little smile. “If so, you will definitely need protection.”

He paced casually toward her. She found herself edging away. Silly, really, but there was something different about him today. A compelling something, but also disconcerting.

“Pen announced that you will sing this evening. Are you practicing for your performance, to be sure that you are in top form for Catalani?”

“Yes.”

“You spoke at length with her last night. Quite a
tête-à-tête.
I assume that you informed her of your plans.”

“Do not worry that I embarrassed you and Pen. No one else heard me and I think she knows the necessity of discretion with a viscount's guests.”

He kept moving, looking around the chamber as if he had not been here in a long time. She felt a continued compulsion to stroll away.

“What did Catalani advise?”

“She agreed with me, that if I want the best training I must go to Italy, or bring one of their premier voice masters here. Until then, she gave me the name of a tutor who might work with me in London. She recommended a Signore Bardi, who serves as
bel canto
master to some of the best singers in London.”

“No other advice? I would not have expected Catalani to be so reserved.”

“She asked if I understood the life, what it would entail.”

“Do you?”

“I know about the hard work. The travel. The need to perform despite exhaustion and illness.”

“That is not what she meant.”

A flush warmed her face. “I
know
what she meant.”

“I do not think that you do. Not really. I doubt that you have any idea of what it means to be someone whom respectable women will not have as a friend. This opera singer may visit houses like this one, but there is only one Catalani. It will not be thus for you. There will be no Aunt Edith in England or Italy to blunt the scorn.”

Annoyance made her stand her ground. “I know what so-called decent people think about such women. I saw very decent men indeed approach my mother at times. As I grew older I understood what they wanted. I will deal with them as she did. Am I supposed to forego something important to me,
essential
to me, because of unfounded prejudices?”

He kept walking. Circling, circling. If he were not a citadel of propriety, if his demeanor were not so casual, she might succumb to the sensation that she was being stalked. His height kept him to the center of the chamber, and the circle seemed a rather small one now that she stood in its center.

“The prejudices are well-founded for most actresses and singers,” he said, as if discussing women of ill repute were a perfectly acceptable topic.

“The life is an insecure one, and I expect many performers need to accept the protection offered to them.”

“You think that it is desperation that makes such women into mistresses and courtesans, and that your inheritance will spare you? Your judgment is harsher than mine. I assume that it is loneliness. A decent marriage is almost impossible. There are wastrels who will offer, but none whom you will want.”

This indelicate conversation had suddenly become personal. “I know that too. Some things are worth sacrifices, however.”

“A lifetime of them? You think so now, but in ten years? Fifteen? No marriage, no children, no home. I find it more sad than scandalous that for most of these women the day comes when someone offers the semblance of love and they take it. No matter what their resolve when they start, after a period of virtuous, unnatural isolation, the choice is probably inevitable.”

“How dare you presume to predict such a bleak and sordid future for me. You are very cynical to contend that if I pursue my singing my fall is preordained. Not that I can see why it should make any difference to you.”

His pacing stopped, leaving him several feet away. “I am responsible for you.”

“So you interfere with my life, to protect me from myself. For all of ten months.”

“Longer, if I can find the way.”

Longer!
“Don't you dare try to manipulate further obstacles. I will not tolerate it.”

“Your resolve leaves me little choice. You may think that you can live like a nun, but I doubt that you have it in you to do so indefinitely.”

“Your implication is insulting and scandalous.”

“Not insulting at all. And scandalous only if you end up as some man's mistress instead of some man's wife.”