The Saint (12 page)

“When did that happen?” Bianca felt obliged to continue the conversation since Dante had started it for her sake.

“Years ago. He sold out his ships, what, ten years back or so.”

“Did you sail with him long?”

“No, only that once. I jumped ship in the West Indies and found a berth with another master.”

“My grandfather's rule did not appeal to you, I gather.”

“Your grandfather was not the master himself. He only owned the ships and arranged for their cargo. I merely decided to sail elsewhere.”

He was lying. Bianca just knew that from the overly polite way he spoke.

“Odd that he sold out the whole lot all at once,” Dante said. “To own a fleet of ships one day, and then none the next.”

“Since I bought two of them, I was glad that he did,” St. John said.

“What did his ships carry?” Bianca asked.

“All sorts of things, I imagine, as mine do.”

She got the sense that Mr. St. John was humoring them, and not being very forthright. Dante was right, it was odd that her grandfather had sold out all those ships at once, no matter what this other shipper said.

She did not have time to press him for a clearer explanation, because Penelope walked to the center of the room and called for attention. “We are fortunate to have several accomplished musicians among us tonight, and I have imposed upon two of them, Sir Nigel Kenwood and Miss Bianca Kenwood, to perform. Let us regather in the music room and give them our grateful attention.”

She led the way out. Dante moved to escort Bianca, but Mr. St. John claimed her attention first. “It appears that Catalani knows when to give way to youth.”

“It is kind of you to say that, but I doubt she fears competition from me.”

“She has given up performing for a reason. She knows that the instrument is not what it was.” He tucked her hand into his arm while they strolled down the corridor. “Nervous?”

“Horribly. I was looking forward to this, and now …”

“Then that explains your distraction today. My wife commented on it to me. She is very observant in her quiet way, and worried that you were distressed about something. She will be relieved to learn that it was your fear of blundering tonight's performance. I told her that was so, and perfectly normal.”

No it wasn't. Not for her. But this was different. She had dreaded this moment all day. To sing that aria again, in front of all of these people, with
him
sitting there … Her insides twisted tighter with each step.

Nigel took his place at the pianoforte. The guests sat in chairs arrayed in front of her. Vergil chose to stand near the wall, next to Fleur's place.

She looked at him, hoping for a smile of reassurance. He didn't notice, as he bent to say something to his intended. Her heart filled. He looked so appealing in his dark green frock coat and cream trousers, with waves of hair framing his face and his blue eyes lighting with humor while he smiled at his lady.

She realized with a start that Nigel had begun the introduction. She scrambled to prepare herself.

From across the room, Vergil looked at her.

She blundered it. That first note simply wouldn't come. She turned to Nigel with a desperate, wordless plea.

He improvised until he brought the melody around to the beginning again. She focused on the floor and pulled herself together. When she looked up again she saw a green frock coat slipping out the door.

Thank you.

She hit every note perfectly, but her soul wasn't concerned with precision. Vergil might not be present in the room, but he was in her head, confusing her with that startling look, spiritually intruding with improper memories. This aria wasn't like the last one at the ruins, with its thrilling exaltation. A different emotion dripped through it this time. A strange hollow existed inside her and the music deepened it and then filled it with penetrating, regretful yearning. By the time she finished she did not know if the performance had been successful or not.

“Magnificent, cousin,” Nigel whispered into the silence that followed.

The effort left her in a melancholy fog. She glanced to Catalani's pensive expression even as she accepted the praise of the other guests.

Catalani walked over, took her hands, and pulled her aside. “I have grown jaded, and confess that I expected a pretty voice, suitable for drawing rooms and churches. I was mistaken. You possess great talent, my dear. You are not ordinary.”

On any other day Catalani's judgment would have produced euphoria. Tonight it only added one more big knot in the tangle of emotions that confused her.

Pen led the way into the library for cards, but Bianca begged off, saying that she wanted to retire. She followed the retinue down the corridor, but turned away at the stairs.

Nigel held back from the others. “I had hoped that we would find ourselves at the same table, cousin.”

“I would have been a poor partner tonight. The excitement of singing with Catalani present …”

“Of course. I understand. Still, I would be grateful for some time with you. We have much in common, cousin. I would like to know you better.”

All the “cousins” in the world, all the formal, proper address and tones, did not obscure what he meant. His interest glowed in his expression. She suspected that if they were alone right now in the garden, Nigel would try to kiss her.

Three men in two days. She had no idea that becoming a loose woman was this easy.

Her experience this morning was making her cynical. Maybe Nigel's interest was an honorable one.

“Will you be joining the others on the ride in the morning?” he asked.

Pen had arranged for everyone to tour the estate, ending with a luncheon at the ruins. Going back there so soon would be horrible. “I do not think so. I am not feeling well, and will stay here and rest.”

The study door opened down the corridor. The tall figure of the Viscount Laclere emerged, heading to the library. He saw them and paused, standing sentry. Nigel glanced to him and gave her a private smile.

“I should like to speak with you sometime when your guardian does not glare over my shoulder. We are both alone in the world, and relatives can be a source of solace for each other. If you ever need my aid, I hope that you will call on me.”

“It is very kind of you to offer. Now, you should join the others and I must seek my privacy.”

Vergil did not move, even when Nigel passed with a greeting and entered the library. He just stood there, looking at her. She wanted to flip her head and turn away with haughty indifference. Instead she couldn't move.

“You retire?” he asked.

“Yes. The evening has been a trial.”

“I think the evening was a triumph. I listened. You outdid yourself. As for the day, I expect it has been a trial, and I apologize for it.”

She did not want to hear any more of his apologies.

“Your grandfather's personal papers arrived this morning,” he said. “Most of the boxes are in my study so they will not crowd you, but I had the ones from the years when your father lived with him brought up to your chamber, along with the contents of his desk.”

“Thank you.” She forced herself to move and turned to the stairs.

“There is something else. I must insist that you do not go about on your own in the early morning in the future.”

“Do you worry for my virtue?” It came out before she could stop herself.

He didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. “I worry for your safety.”

“I will go where I wish, and practice when I can.”

“Not in the morning, and not alone. If you want to practice in private and you worry that you will disturb others in your chamber, use my study. But do not leave the house.”

“You keep shortening the leash, Laclere. Why not just tie me to my bedpost?”

His blue eyes regarded her in a way far removed from the day's bland acknowledgments.

“You have a talent for provoking the most astonishing images, Miss Kenwood.” He turned away. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Jane was waiting in her chamber. It felt good to be alone with someone who had known her for years.

“The guests have certainly livened this old place up, haven't they?” Jane said. “All those handsome men in their fine clothes.”

Jane had viewed this journey from the start as a good opportunity to find Bianca a husband. She had never recognized that the lack of suitors in Baltimore was intentional, and the result of careful discouragements.

“That Mr. Witherby looked promising. A gentleman, it is said, and nice-looking enough.”

“I suspect that he has an interest in Penelope.”

Jane frowned. “A married woman? Separated or not, that is what she is. Well, the viscount is out, what with being all but engaged to Miss Monley. Just as well. Who would want such a strict, stern man? There is always Charlotte's youngest brother, although it is said—”

“I know what is said.”

Jane helped her into a dressing gown. “All these unmarried men, and not even a flirtation? Who would expect England to be so dull.”

Anything but dull anymore, and a flirtation didn't begin to describe just how undull it had become. “My cousin Nigel has made his interest known.”

“I've never liked the idea of relatives. Not good for the blood.”

“He is some ways removed.”

“True. Only it is said downstairs that he is much like Dante. Lives in debt. Can't afford all those fine things. Your grandfather left you most of the money. It's said your cousin only got enough money to maintain the estate, tied up proper so he can't get it, only the income every year.”

“Where do you learn these things?”

“Servants here know the few servants remaining there. Tenants talk among themselves. It is just like one of our neighborhoods. It all comes in through the kitchen door,” Jane said. “If he has expressed that kind of interest, you should know that he may be like Dante in other ways too. Seems your cousin is not always alone in that big house. A woman secretly visited last week. Take my advice. That is one man whose interest I don't think we want.”

Bianca didn't want any man's interest. Absolutely not. Nothing but distractions, that was what men were. Potentially permanent distractions, the way the world worked. And, as she was learning the hard way, sources of confusion and hurt.

She yearned for sleep, but knew it would only come with total exhaustion. After Jane left, she moved the candles over to the crates and trunk stacked near the hearth, and sat on the floor to see what they might reveal.

A key poked out of the trunk's lock. Turning it, she lifted the top and examined the contents of Adam's desk at Woodleigh.

She fingered the quills and cheap inkwell. She poked amidst scraps of paper that bore cryptic notes. One had the name of Vergil's brother along with some others, and she guessed it had been among the last that her grandfather made.

A stack of letters, tied together with twine, caught her interest. She was about to open them when she noticed the salutation on the top one. Written in a man's hand, it addressed Adam as “My dearest friend.”

They could not be from her father, with a salutation like that. Probably they were from the previous viscount. She would give them to Vergil.

In a little leather case she found a miniature of a blonde woman. She guessed that it was her grandmother. She saw a resemblance to her father, which called up memories of his love and noble honesty. Her throat burned as an old sorrow joined the new ones.

A dried flower dropped from the depression onto her lap as she lifted the tiny painting from its velvet nest.

The flower did not look very old. It did not crumble when touched, as it would if it had been in this case for years.

She pictured an old man picking a flower as he walked in the garden and later opening this case to the memories of his wife. She imagined Adam leaving this tiny offering to her.

She snapped the case closed. She did not want to become sentimental about him. Probably the flower had been there forever, and put there by her grandmother herself.

The other trunk held portfolios. Adam had been an organized man, and each year's correspondence had its own, with the year written on its front. She searched for the ones from the years before she was born, when her father had left England.

It took her some time to find the right year. She had not realized that her father had gone to America a full six years before she was born.

It was a thin portfolio with very few letters. Three were from her father. She read them, and learned the reason why Adam Kenwood and his son had become estranged.

It was not because of her mother. It had happened before her parents had even met. Vergil had been correct about how it had happened too. Her father made the break. In a letter refusing Adam's offer of an allowance, he laid out the reasons.

His explanation emptied her heart of its last shreds of joy and confidence. The dream that had sustained her since her mother's death wobbled as if its foundations had been attacked. The inheritance suddenly struck her as an evil joke, a devil's lure to join his sin.

No wonder her father had turned his back on the estate and status Adam had built.

Her grandfather had made his first fortune in the slave trade.

chapter
8

V
ery early the next morning, Bianca rose and dressed and headed to the viscount's study. He had said she could practice there, which meant that she could enter. She did so, but with no intention of singing.

The rest of the boxes containing Adam's effects were stacked against the window seat. Kneeling, she began to line up the wooden crates so she could examine their contents.

She wanted to know just how much she should hate Adam Kenwood before she made her decision about the inheritance. She ruefully admitted that she hoped to find some evidence of his redemption, so she would not feel obligated to renounce all of it.

Pushing the crates this way and that absorbed her, and she did not hear the bootsteps until they stopped right beside her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw polished boots and doeskin breeches. She trembled with an alert, stupid excitement.

“You were riding again,” she said. “At least one of us is allowed to enjoy the mornings.”

“You are welcome to join me any morning.”

“I do not think that would be wise. Do you?” She fussed with some files, not really seeing what she handled. “If you want me to leave, I will do this later. I am trying to find out if my mother wrote to him after father's death, asking for help.”

He walked to the other side of the row of crates and lowered to his knees. “You said it was during the war. Those years seem to be in this crate here.”

She scooted over and pawed through it until she found 1814. “He was a slave trader. Did you know that?”

She guessed from his hesitation that he did know.

He poked through another crate. “Many families have that trade in their background. Lord Liverpool's father was a slaver, but he worked for passage of the law that made it illegal.”

“Did my grandfather work to pass that law?”

“I do not think so.”

“It was why my father broke with him. In America, my father wrote and spoke against it. We almost moved to Philadelphia so that we would not live in a city that had a slave port, but he believed he could do more good in Baltimore.” She pulled at the ties binding the two pasteboards of the 1814 portfolio together.

A letter from her mother lay on top of the others. In response to an offer of financial assistance from Adam, she had refused for the same reasons her husband had never accepted any money.

And so, to get his way, to force his son's family to accept who he was, he had left a huge amount to her, his granddaughter.

She knew what she had to do. It saddened her no matter how right and just and noble it was. Without the dream of her singing, she was not sure that she had anything left.

“My inheritance was built on slavery. You were correct, and using it will be a great joke rather than a great justice. The joke, however, was Adam's.”

“He sold out of shipping long ago. Most of his fortune came from other things.”

But it had started there. She could not reconcile it, much as she ached to. Her conscience forced a choice that she dreaded. To have a dream within reach and then to voluntarily not grab it—

“I cannot accept it. I want you to sell out anything that you can, and give it to charity. When the funds pay out, give that away too.”

“It will be reckless to sell out, even if it is your desire. A court oversees my stewardship, not you. A court made up of men who will not understand or accept that I should agree to your direction, especially since it will leave you impoverished.”

“Are you saying that you will force me to accept this tainted fortune?”

“I am saying that the fortune will remain intact while I control it. When you begin receiving the income, you can give that away if you choose.”

“Fine. In the meantime, there is no reason for me to remain in England any longer. I want you to secure passage for Jane and me back to Baltimore.”

“I am not inclined to do that either.”

“Your inclinations do not interest me.”

“I think that you are making this decision too hastily, and perhaps for the wrong reasons. Furthermore, your first reason for coming, to see the estate settled, is still important even if you have decided the tainted money forces you to abandon the other.”

“I said nothing about abandoning my plans to train for the opera. I will find a different way to make it happen. One that does not defy my parents' beliefs and sacrifices.”

“Now I am even less inclined to purchase your passage back to Baltimore.”

“In addition to being abducted, it appears that I am now a hostage. You merely delay the inevitable, to the vexation of us both. When I decide to do something, I find a way to accomplish my goal.”

He had gotten that resolute, stern expression again. It was pointless to try and sway him when he was like that, she already knew. Nor did she have the heart to try now. The last day had pummeled her spirit, and she had little heart for arguments.

To feign acquiescence, she gestured to the crates and changed the subject. “Did you find anything else of your brother's?”

“I have not looked. This is your property.”

She rose on her knees. “Let us look now. I will help you. When did Adam build Woodleigh, and the friendship start?”

“Six years ago.”

“These will be the ones we want, then.” She lifted a heavy stack onto the floor.

Vergil's hands quickly closed on the top four. He sat cross-legged and began flipping through their contents. He appeared so interested that it occurred to her that he had lingered with her now in the hopes that she would make this invitation.

She examined the two that were left. “This is odd. There are letters from Adam himself in these as well.”

“They are copies of letters he sent. At some point he probably adopted the practice even for private correspondence.”

“Most of these concern the building of Woodleigh. From their tone, I do not envy the architect. Have you found any to your brother?”

“Yes, but nothing surprising.” His tone suggested otherwise. She looked over to see him scrutinizing a letter with a frown. He appeared very serious and a little sad.

His honest, revealing expression disarmed her. It was easy to forget that he was not only a viscount and trustee, but also a young man who was never supposed to have the title and responsibilities he now bore. She wondered if he had welcomed that unexpected change in his life. Since it had come at the cost of his brother's life, she suspected that guilt shadowed any joy he took in it.

“You can keep it,” she said. “Keep anything of his, or about him.”

He looked over at her. “Thank you.”

His gaze did not return to the letter. It stayed on her and she could not move her own away. The silence of the study pressed on her, but a primal song sounded like a silent melody that went on and on, taking over the space in which they sat too closely and too isolated.

She might have been back at the ruins, being held by him, looking up at a face made stern with passion. She half-expected him to cast aside the letter and reach for her.

Frightened of that impulse, and of the way her heart begged him to do it, she jumped to her feet and backed away to the door.

She awkwardly gestured to the crates. “You have my permission to examine all of it. We will trade. If I find any letters concerning your brother, I will give them to you. If you find any about my parents, you do the same.”

Not waiting for his agreement, she fled the room.

“Laclere.”

The melodic voice drifted to Vergil that afternoon while he climbed the steps to the terrace. Maria Catalani stood at the open door.

“Maria. You did not ride this morning?”

“I am well past the age when bumping along on some rude animal is amusing,
caro mio,
and when it comes to ruins, well, my country has them in abundance. And you?”

“I have business to attend.”

She fell into step when he passed into the drawing room. “You go to your
studio
? I will walk with you.”

The house was silent, emptied of its noisy guests. Catalani strolled beside him as if she crossed a stage. Her form had grown matronly in the last few years and the passionate voice had failed her, but she still knew her worth.

“Thank you for the invitation. I was pleased that you extended it, and Mrs. Gaston was kind to allow me to join her so we could make your little surprise for your sister work.”

“When I heard that you had arrived in London, I thought that the country might offer some rest after your journey. Also, as I told you yesterday, I had an ulterior motive besides Penelope's surprise. I need a professional opinion, and yours is the best. What did you think of Miss Kenwood's performance?”

“She is very talented, Laclere.”

“How talented?”

“You do not need me to tell you. Anyone with an ear can hear it. Anyone with a heart can feel it.”

“Some ears are better than others.”

“She needs training, of course. It will take some time. She also must learn the languages so the words have specific meaning for her, but she is intelligent and that will be easy. Her range at the upper levels may prove limited. Roles for
mezzo-sopranos
may prove her strength
.
She can have many years in opera, however. She has the talent and the determination and, most of all, the heart. Quite a find, Laclere. Are you going to ask me to take her back to Milan as my protégée?”

“Absolutely not, and I must ask that you not make such a suggestion to her.” Bianca had spoken of renouncing the inheritance and finding another way. He did not want Catalani to be that other way.

She studied his face. “You are not pleased with my assessment, I think.”

“I confess to hoping that it would be less positive. It would have simplified things.”

They had reached the library door across from the study. Maria considered him with a tilt of her head. “I think that I understand. You do not intend to allow this young woman her way, and my judgment was going to absolve you. If you have listened to her, your heart knew it would not turn out that way.”

Yes, his heart knew that, but he had been hoping that lust had been obscuring his judgment.

“She will not permit you to interfere,
caro.
When we spoke, I was very frank about the sacrifices, but she remains undeterred. Was that also to your plan? That she would seek me out and become discouraged by what I described? As I said, she has the determination. It is hopeless to try and stop her.”

“Perhaps, but it is my duty to try.”

“Your duty? Ah, I see. You must save her. Very charming and very male. I thank God no man saved me.” She shook her head and opened the library door. Hand on the latch, she turned and smiled with a warmth that made the years fall away. “What has happened to you, Laclere? Where is the young man of dreams and passion who came to my door with an armful of roses that day?”

The gentle scold provoked more nostalgia than anger. “Life happened, Maria. Duties happened. I grew up.”

“Deadening duties, from what I see and hear. I should have kept you as my lover longer than one summer, if you so quickly surrendered to such a fate.”

“I counted myself fortunate to have a summer. You had little taste for boys, as I remember.”

She closed the door and leaned against the wall. “You were so moved by the music, who could not be charmed? Have you lost that too? Is that why I had to come and tell you what would have been obvious to you years ago? Does it no longer speak to you?”

“Sometimes it speaks as powerfully as ever.”

“I am glad,
caro.
We should embrace whatever makes us young dreamers again, even if it is only for a few minutes now and then.”

She did not enter the library, after all, but strolled down the corridor toward the stairs.

Bianca huddled low on the divan, not daring to move. Even after the door closed again and the voices became low mumbles, even after silence fell, she stayed in her ball of arms and legs.

She couldn't believe what she had overheard. Catalani and Vergil …

Astonishing. Astounding.

The
hypocrite.

No wonder he assumed all performers became courtesans and mistresses. He probably had a whole string of them in his background, accumulated after that summer with Catalani. He probably had one ensconced in that manor up north, just as Charlotte speculated. It was isolated and discreet and no one would ever know.

Poor Fleur.

The
scoundrel.

And yesterday morning at the ruins … This certainly shed an unpleasant light on that too. For all she knew, he was a predator keeping her nearby for the most dishonorable of reasons. He could be … He could be
dangerous.

Prolonged silence indicated that Vergil and Catalani had left the corridor near the door. She untwisted herself and tried to accommodate this startling development.