The Lace Balcony (59 page)

She now felt more than ready to face Mungo. But the night wore on. She realised she had fallen asleep in the chair when she awoke, startled by the pattern of the door knocks – unmistakably Mungo's signal. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo as the sound of his boots halted at the foot of the stairs.
How odd. Hesitancy is foreign to his nature.

‘Is that you, Mungo?' she called out softly, so as not to wake Jane Quayle.

‘Yeah. Who
else
would it be?'

The moment she saw him bounding up the ladder, her heart turned over as it did for heroines in romantic novels. But Mungo was more than a literary hero – all too human, all too real. Unconventionally handsome, his mouth was too wide, his cheekbones too sharp to fit classical proportions. Tanned by the sun, his face was enhanced by the fine white line scarring his chin. He stood facing her, feet planted wide, dressed as a gentleman. His dark blue velvet evening jacket contrasted with his pale waistcoat, buff trousers and the starched white linen at his throat, tied by a dark blue neck cloth.

Candlelight glinted on his hair, streaked blonde like a tiger's ruff that hung over the high collar of his coat. She was annoyed that she could not fault him – he was perfect in every detail. Yet something was wrong. His eyes were cold, very cold.

‘Care to explain who brought you that heap of flowers?' he asked.

‘These?' She gestured to the little vase on the table. ‘Molly brought them with a note from Felix's sickbed to mine. But I'm well again now, as you can see.' She began to flounder, noting the tight line of his mouth. ‘Please thank Mr L'Estrange for the food and champagne. Jane and I haven't eaten so well in weeks.'

How tactless – that sounded like a complaint about Jane's cooking. Why on earth is he staring at me like that? His silence is unnerving.

When Mungo did speak, his tone was mocking, sharper than usual.

‘Do you ever open your mouth without delivering a pack of lies?'

‘What do you mean? The flowers
are
from Felix – flowers from the garden.'

‘Not them. That lavish bouquet downstairs – the kind that gentlemen send to their mistresses, or their whores. Here, read the note he sent you.'

Mungo sprawled in a chair, assuming his role of authority as the rightful master of the place. His face was flushed with anger and perhaps with wine. The envelope was sealed so at least he had not read it. She was chilled by the sight of Severin's name.

‘Read it! I could do with a good laugh,' he said.

She read it slowly to herself. ‘It's private. It means nothing – it's just his way.'

He thumped the table. ‘Read it to me! At least I've taught you something! You're now a
literate
whore – sorry, I forgot the polite term is courtesan.'

‘Don't shout, Mungo. I don't want Jane to know.'

‘Know what? The truth about you?'

‘All right, you asked for it. This letter is nothing but lies. But I'm the only one who knows the truth.' She read the words haltingly, as if they were the lines from a play, delivering them with an edge of scorn to disguise the quiver in her voice.

‘It says, “My darling Vianna, It was a joy to spend the night in your arms and to hear you begging me never to leave you again. I give you my word as a gentleman. You belong to me and always will. I await your return.
You
will come to
me.
As you always do . . . your own . . . Severin”.'

Vianna tossed the note at him. ‘Here read his lies yourself. Believe him or believe me. Your choice!'

Mungo crumpled the note and threw it across the room unread.

‘You brought Severin to
my house!
His flowers are inside
my
door.'

‘That only proves he now knows I live here. He didn't show his face. That's Severin's game of cat and mouse. I left the door unlocked for
you,
remember?'

She tried to sound confident but the tell-tale sign of his rage, the pulse throbbing at his temple, frightened her even more than Severin's recent proximity.

She pressed on. ‘You said you wanted to discuss something. Here I am.' She nervously fingered her collar where it pressed against the last of her bruises.

‘The reason no longer matters. Fool that I was I came to ask Fanny Byron to marry me. I can see she doesn't live here – never has. So, is Vianna Francis going to offer me a drink?'

Mungo's more frightening when he's calm but I mustn't let him see that.

‘Certainly. Jane said to save the champagne to drink with you.'

‘How like my mother. A born Romantic. It has been her undoing. She's had several offers of marriage. But she remains true to her first love – my father.'

He raised his glass in an ironic toast. ‘To the notorious Vianna Francis.'

‘I would prefer to toast my teacher – who taught me to read and write.'

‘To Vianna Francis!' He drank the wine in one draft then threw the glass to shatter in the fireplace. ‘That's an ancient custom, isn't it? A toast so important no one must drink from the same glass again.'

Vianna snapped. ‘Why are you here, Mungo? I don't deserve this. Yes, I admit I saw Severin weeks ago, by accident. Unknown to Felix I went in response to an answer to his advertisement. I expected to meet J.D. Esquire, who claimed to have details of Daisy. Severin tricked me.'

Mungo threw back his head and laughed, but there was no pleasure in the sound. ‘By God, you're good, girl. You could tread the boards at Drury Lane and have all London at your feet.'

‘If you're only here to call me a liar, please leave. I intend to repay every penny you have spent on my expenses.'

Mungo poured them both another glass of wine and sat smiling at her. ‘You truly want to repay me, do you?'

‘Just as soon as I am able.'

‘Tonight?'

What's the trick?
Her head ached with confusion, accelerated by champagne.

He removed from his waistcoat a small velvet bag he placed on the table.

‘You thrive on love stories, Vianna. They are food and drink to you, yes?'

She nodded, uncertain, aware she was a captive audience.

‘Allow me to amuse you with a true story. It will either make you laugh or cry. Who knows?'

He crossed to the balcony, glancing out at the stars. Or was it to check if they were being observed by Felix's telescope? Whatever the reason, Mungo drew the curtains to close off the outside world. He flung his coat across a chair.

‘There's a saying,' he said, ‘ “Who has not fallen in love at first sight, has not loved.”' I don't know who said that, but I discovered it was true for me. That first day we met I did more than kiss you – I gave you my heart. At Moreton Bay I was more often crazy than sane. Some prisoners cracked under the lash. Cried for their mothers. Not me. It took solitary confinement to break me. I talked to ghosts – they talked to me. Only one thing prevented me falling into the bottomless pit of insanity. A beautiful golden girl came to me at night. She told me that no matter what they did to me, I was her man. Sometimes she came in a cloud of white – her wedding gown, her veil floating behind her . . . she was so real. She lay with me. Told me she loved me. That she was waiting for me. She kept me
alive
.'

Vianna felt her throat constrict. This was no tall tale.

‘Was she a dream, a memory, sheer hallucination?' he asked. ‘I didn't care. Her promise kept me sane.'

Mungo turned to face her. Strong and virile, he showed no visible sign of emotion but the images in Vianna's mind were enough to break her heart.

She tried to cover her face but Mungo held fast to her hands. ‘Look at me, Vianna. I haven't finished yet. I haven't made you laugh – or cry!'

She forced herself to meet the intensity of his eyes but there were no words strong enough to ease his pain.

‘When I was set free I returned to Sydney Town to search for Fanny, the girl who gave her scarf to the right man with the wrong name.
Me.
When I saw you again, that day in the carriage, I saw that Severin controlled you like a puppet-master. You were afraid of him. I had only one choice – to set you free. Make you my wife. Give you my name.' He shrugged. ‘Quayle is the name of a bastard, but I wear Mother's name with pride.'

‘Any woman would be proud to marry you. But you deserve far better –'

‘Enough!' he said. ‘From the day I brought you here – a mermaid, kicking and screaming – I have treated you with respect. You
know
I have. Despite my lust, every fantasy in my head, wanting to throw you down on that bed and make love to you all night. I
waited
– gave you time to turn your back on your old life. Time to give yourself a chance – give
me
a chance!' He made an ironic gesture to the sovereign purse. ‘That was for you to buy a bolt of silk for your wedding gown.'

‘No!' The cry escaped her.

He turned her face so she was forced to meet his eyes. ‘I can't marry you, Mungo. Believe me, if I could love anyone, it would be you.'

‘Come come, Vianna, I may be nuts but I'm no longer certifiably insane. My offer of marriage is no longer open. But if you want to repay me, the choice is yours.' He gestured to the coins. ‘Just for one night in your life, fulfil my fantasy. Give me
my wedding night.
Surely that can't be too difficult for a courtesan? Tomorrow you're free to take the money and leave. I promise you I won't follow you – now or ever.'

Vianna felt she was plucking random thoughts from the air. Nothing was real.

‘One night. Then you are willing to let me go, forever?'

‘One night. I give you my word – not as a gentleman. The word of a Currency Lad.'

They waited. The dark silence outside was broken only by the plaintive, far-off howl of a dingo. At last Vianna found the words she needed to set them both free.

‘If you accept that I can never marry you, Mungo – I shall give you a wedding night to remember on your deathbed,' she said coolly.

She was overcome by a sudden impulse to hurt him. Was it to release his pain – or her own? She weighed the coins in her hand.

‘It's a little light but near enough to be acceptable for a wedding night – above a stable.'

Vianna crossed over and knelt by his chair. She shook her hair free to fall like a cloak around her shoulders in the time honoured
message of seduction. She lifted his foot and placed it against her breast. Then with the ghost of a smile that promised him the world, she removed each of his boots in turn. Holding his gaze, she untied his silk neck cloth, unfastened the linen at his throat, caressed and kissed his naked chest.

Mungo studied her with a faint smile, but she could not read the expression in his eyes. He allowed her to stroke and kiss his body to arouse him but he did not touch her. Her hands were trembling as she began to remove his shirt, but when he caught her hand she made no protest, realising that the pain was unintentional. She sensed she had not even scratched the surface of his anger.

‘No. Leave it,' he ordered. ‘My back is heavily scarred. Not a pretty sight.'

‘I am your bride. There can be no secrets between your body and mine.'

When she had made him naked, she coiled herself around him, kissing his neck, his chest and finally his back, where the white ridges of deep scars made by ‘the cat', were long healed yet forever a part of him, like the initiation scars of tribal men.

At last Mungo gave in to impulse and laid his hands on her.

Softly she whispered the words that had always aroused men to fever pitch.

‘Yes, my darling. I want to set you free. Do everything you want to me. Anything. No rules. No barriers between us.'

‘Really?' he asked. ‘Then tell me you love me.'

She did not hesitate. ‘I love you with all my heart, Mungo.'

‘Words are easy. Now comes the hard part –
make me believe it!
'

She unfastened the bodice of her gown and slipped out of it to stand before him, her hair wild, no hair on her body. Her simple white shift was a world away from the wicked French lingerie in a courtesan's repertoire of seduction. The slip sank to the floor, leaving her stripped down to the bare essentials she possessed to give him pleasure – her mouth, her hands, her body, the wild flights of her imagination.

‘Make me believe you love me, Vianna. Just for tonight – I'll make it worth your while. Money can buy anything from a courtesan, can't it!'

‘You don't have enough money to buy my love. Only my freedom. When we met the timing was all wrong. Nobody's fault. So these words come too late. But for what it's worth, for the first time in my life I know what it is to truly love a man.' She turned away. ‘By morning you'll know that's either the truth – or the lies of a whore.'

He rose to follow but Vianna gestured him to remain. ‘Wait a moment longer.'

She closed the door between them and with trembling fingers opened the box.

On her return she held out her hand to him, seeing a range of expressions cross his face, each fighting for control.

Vianna stood before him as motionless as the living portraits she had portrayed on stage at Severin House. Covering her like a silken cocoon was the long, cloud of tulle that Jane had made for her wedding veil, held by a diadem of orange blossoms. Beneath the veil she was naked, except for a dark neck cloth knotted at her throat.

Mungo's voice was husky. ‘My scarf. Does that mean . . . ?'

‘I gave you
my
scarf years ago. Tonight I wear yours. True to the underworld code of thieves and strumpets – just for tonight, Mungo Quayle, I am your wife.'

He came to her as naked as Adam and carried her to bed. At first rough and clumsy, he soon caught the rhythm, gave her in full measure his body, passionate, angry and demanding. And because she had long known the ways of men, Vianna responded to his every need, sensing when he wanted to dominate her, excite her, use her, make her use him, please her, enchant her and make her beg.