Sattler, Veronica (60 page)

"Won't
you be seated, Your Grace? I've just sent for tea, and I hope you'll join me in
the ritual your countrymen are so fond of, and whose custom I adopted when I
lived in England as a young woman." She sat on a damask-covered sofa and
indicated he might take the green velvet chair it faced over a small tea table.

"I
noticed your flawless English, m'lady," Brett returned, "and was
wondering how you came by it. Did you live there long?"

"A
number of years, yes," answered Maria. Then, wanting to direct the
conversation away from her, she added, "But tell me, what is it that brings
you away from England yourself?"

Brett
lowered his large frame into the comfortable chair, but kept his posture more
formal than relaxed. He had yet to determine whether this woman would prove
friendly regarding his quest, if indeed she was harboring Ashleigh in her home.
And if she was, just how had she come to do so? What was her relationship to
Ashleigh?—or to Patrick, whose schooner it surely must be in the harbor; the
Dutch-flagged vessel, as some of his officers had already determined, was manned
by a crew that spoke American-accented English. No, despite the charming
demeanor she presented, it was best not to let his guard down where this woman
was concerned.

"You
read my letter, of course," he said.

"Yes,"
said Maria, "but I fear it was somewhat, ah, unenlightening... as to
specifics, I mean." She paused as Enrico appeared in the doorway carrying
a tea service on a silver tray. "Ah, I see our tea has arrived. You may
set it down here, Enrico," she added in Italian, then nodded her dismissal
after the steward had complied.

"Specifics?"
asked Brett as he watched her pour the tea from a heavy silver pot.

"Yes,
Your Grace. You see, I am in the fortunate position of being able to care for a
number of children who needed fostering, and I have taken them into my home to
live with me over the years. Your letter spoke of someone you've searched for,
and—" She paused, teacup in hand. "Do you take cream... sugar?"

"Neither,
thank you." He accepted the tea as Maria continued.

"So
you can imagine my wondering just which one of these children it might be
that—"

"Contessa,"
Brett
broke in, "the person I seek is not a child. She is a fully grown young
woman who left England some time last summer."

"I
see," said Maria, taking a sip of her tea. "And her, ah, identity...?"

The
turquoise eyes fastened on the gold and turquoise flecks in hers, and, as he
was about to satisfy her query, Brett had an arresting intuition:
He had met
this woman before!
As to when, or where, he had not the faintest notion,
but he was absolutely certain—without knowing how he was certain—that the
Contessa di Montefiori was familiar to him. Checking the urge to question her
about it immediately, he forced the impression to the back of his mind—for
now—and resumed the conversation.

"Her
name is Ashleigh Sinclair Westmont... and she is my wife."

The
hazel eyes shuttered at his statement, and Brett could detect no hint of
recognition in her response, so he pressed further. "Of course, she may be
traveling under an assumed name. I—"

"You
are telling me it is possible this woman, your wife, does not wish to be found.
Is that not so, Your Grace?" The hazel eyes that again met his were cool
and reserved.

An
exasperated sigh broke from Brett's lips, and he nodded. "That is
correct."

Maria
was silent for a moment as she appeared to digest this information.
Now it
comes,
she thought,
the critical moment wherein I must determine what is
to be done. Sweet Mary,
she prayed,
let my choice be the right one!

"Tell
me, Your Grace, what is it you truly seek? This lady who is your wife...
suppose she were here. What are your intentions, should you find her?"

Brett
ran a careless hand through his well-groomed curls. "M'lady, I've asked
myself that same question hundreds of times since she... disappeared." He
shook his head in a weary gesture. "I suppose there's no help for it, but
to tell you some of the sorry details, so that—"

Just
then, a resounding bark echoed from the hallway outside the drawing room, and a
second later, Finn's shaggy form bounded through the partially open door,
followed by a pair of curly-headed toddlers.

"Via,
via,
Finn!"
one of them cried, then, raising startled eyes to Maria and her guest, grabbed
his red-cheeked companion's arm and stopped short in his tracks, lowering
abashed eyes to the floor.
"Scusa, Signora Contessa,"
he
mumbled.

The
second boy, a four-year-old named Carlo, lowered the red harness he'd been
thrusting at the wolfhound and smiled apologetically at Maria before lowering
his eyes too, but Finn rushed up to Brett and gave him a welcoming bark, his
tail wagging furiously.

Brett
patted the dog on the head, then turned to Maria. "So she
is
here."

Maria
sighed. "She is here," she answered resignedly, then glanced at the
two toddlers near the door and spoke gently to them in Italian.

The
small boys raised their eyes and brightened, sending her glad smiles, then
walked quietly over to Finn and led him out of the room.

Brett
watched them go, a gentle half smile on his lips as he observed their chubby
little legs endeavor to keep up with the wolfhound's gigantic strides, but when
he turned back to Maria, his expression was stern. "Just what is your
relationship to my wife,
contessa?"

Maria
faced him for a moment, then gave him the answer she had prepared. "I am
an old friend of her family's. I knew her and Sir Patrick years ago."

"When
you lived in England."

A
pause. "Yes."

"Then
I assume you are privy to the circumstances that brought them here."

"I
am."

"Then
may I also assume you see me as the villain in this situation?" Brett's
eyes grew hard with this question.

Maria
met them with a resolute look. "That depends, Your Grace."

"On...?"

"On
what your intentions are, now that you have located Ashleigh."

"I
see," said Brett, rising from his chair. "And if I refuse to explain
them to you?"

"That
could prove t' be very unwise," said a female voice from the doorway.

"Megan!"
Maria exclaimed. "When did you get back?"

Megan
stepped into the drawing room. She wore a leaf-green cloak of soft wool; her
glorious hair was tousled and windblown, and her cheeks bore the rosy hue of
someone who has been out-of-doors. "Just a few minutes ago, m'lady, but,
not t' fash yerself—the colleen's not with us. We left her—" she glanced
at Brett "—ah, somewhere in the village. Hello, Yer Grace. I had an idea
ye'd turn up... like a bad penny!"

Brett's
face reflected his irritation at the remark. "I see these few months have
done nothing to soften your sharp tongue, Miss O'Brien."

"That
would be
Lady St. Clare
now," said a voice from the doorway as
Patrick's huge form filled it. "Megan and I were wed in December."

Brett
watched the big man come to stand beside his wife and then saw the two exchange
a look that spoke worlds to each other; their eyes communicated mutual
adoration, trust, respect... in short, total love of the sort he had come to
believe could never exist between a man and a woman, and he felt a momentary
stab of regret at the discovery.

Schooling
his features to reflect none of this, he replied stiffly, "My
congratulations to you both. I wish you every happiness."

Patrick
accepted this with a cool nod. "Why have you come, Brett?"

Brett's
reply was tight, even defensive. "I should think that would be fairly
obvious. I've come to see Ashleigh."

"I
find it less than obvious that a man should seek out a wife he's thrust
aside," said Patrick.

Brett's
control began to slip as he met the grim determination of Megan and Patrick's
protectiveness. Hell, it had been difficult enough, coming here to face the
question mark Ashleigh represented, without having to undergo an interrogation
from these two! He wanted to see his wife, dammit—not undergo a bloody
inquisition! Struggling to keep his temper in check, he questioned softly,
perhaps too softly, "Are you going to let me see her or not?"

Megan's
green eyes met his with a cool, resolute look. "I think, Yer Grace, that
will be up t' the wee colleen t' decide. She's free t' do as she pleases here,
ye know." Then, insinuatingly, "She comes and goes wearin' a full set
o'
clothes
these days."

Maria
thought she saw her son wince at this remark and felt her heart go out to him.
Not that she blamed Megan and Patrick for their protectiveness; there was
considerable justification for it. But she also realized how Brett must be
feeling at the moment. He was clearly a proud man, one who didn't find it easy
to admit he'd been wrong—at least, she
thought
he was trying to admit
he'd been wrong—but how to know for sure? Well, it was certain they weren't
going to uncover his feelings by backing him into a corner like a fox at the
mercy of a pack of hounds. Someone had to steer things in a different
direction—and quickly!

Stepping
forward, Maria placed a gentle hand on Brett's arm, forestalling his response
to Megan's remark. "Pardon me, Your Grace," she said, "but I
believe I have a suggestion that might be of some help." She glanced at
the ornate gold clock on the mantel. "It is growing late, and I promised
some of the children I'd hear their lessons. It seems we can accomplish little
more at this time—that is, not until we have consulted Ashleigh herself on the
matter of when—and if—she wishes to meet with you. Why don't you allow us time
to talk with her and then come back—shall we say tomorrow? For luncheon? You
will have your answer then." She looked questioningly at her son, then at
Megan and Patrick.

Patrick
sighed, then sought Brett's eyes. "I can agree to that if, Brett, you'll
answer just one question."

Brett
nodded for him to continue.

"Did
you divorce her?"

"No,"
said Brett, "nor, if I can help it, do I intend to."

* * * * *

Brett
sat at a table that was laden with an abundance of perfectly prepared
delicacies and smiled at the woman across from him. He was deciding he'd never
met a more gracious, charming woman in his life. He discounted those he'd
pursued with a sexual liaison in mind, for Maria di Montefiori was definitely
in a separate category. She was a delight—this witty, graceful and serene
Italian noblewoman, a pleasure to be with in a host of ways that were totally
divorced from the usual male-female game of chase, charm and conquer.

In
the brief hour they'd spent dining at her table they'd discoursed on a variety
of topics—art, music, even politics—and he'd found her highly intelligent,
cultured and well-read—in short, able to converse on almost any subject. And
when the talk had turned to what was clearly the center of her life—the
children she'd taken into her home—he saw yet more admirable qualities, and a
nurturing quality rarely seen in women of the upper classes, women who usually
left child rearing to those they'd hired to do it.

Before
he'd been with her even an hour, he'd come to appreciate how very rare she was.
Special. In this short while she'd put him completely at ease—no small feat
considering the circumstances under which he'd arrived. Even now, when he should
be champing at the bit, to be done with the meal so that she might lead him to
Ashleigh—for she'd greeted him with the news that his wife was amenable to a
meeting—he found himself so intrigued and relaxed by her company, that it left
him quite willing to defer to Maria's lead in timing the meeting, which was to
follow their luncheon.

"So
the result of that particular pageant," Maria was saying, "was that
the pig is not content to let a day go by without being given a rose to clamp
between her teeth and drop at your wife's feet the moment they meet in the
garden or wherever!"

Brett
laughed heartily as she finished her anecdote, one of several she'd amused him
with in the hour. "A delightful story,
Contessa,
and not the last
you'll have to tell about that pig, I'll warrant! The animal's a living
conversation piece!"

Maria
smiled, warmed by the cheerful good humor she saw in her son's eyes. It had
been her intent, of course, to bring him to such an easy state while they
dined. She'd been worried by the way things had gone yesterday, distressed to
find Brett so sharply on the defensive. It had been impossible to get to know
him under such circumstances, to gauge what he was really like, and to help
him, as well as dear Ashleigh. And that was what Maria wanted above all else—to
bring these two together.

But
this afternoon, how different he was! Here, in this relaxed young man, she
caught glimpses of the sunny, happy child he'd once been. Here at last was the
living proof that her hopes for him over the years had not been futile. Brett
Westmont, at his best, was a charming, warm, sensitive man who, at the same
time, exhibited keen intelligence and a sense of the ability to guide his own
life in a positive, meaningful direction. No shallow, spoiled scion of the aristocracy,
he! Oh, no, her son had depth of character that was carved out of qualities
that represented the best the human race had to offer. She was proud of him.
And she ached to tell him so.