Two Little Lies (3 page)

Viviana felt a hot, urgent pressure well behind her eyes, and turned at once back to her desk. “I think, Lucy, that you misunderstand,” she said, pretending to neaten her pens and papers. “I am returning home to marry someone who used to…well, someone I used to know.”

“Oh, no, miss!” She felt Lucy touch her lightly on the arm. “But…but what about Mr. Hewitt?”

Viviana regained her composure, and turned around again. Opera required one to be not just a good singer, but a competent actress as well. “Oh, I think we have come to an understanding, he and I,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Well, I can’t see what it could be!” said the girl.

“Hush, Lucy.” Viviana set her hands on the maid’s shoulders, and swiftly kissed both her cheeks. “I am leaving England, my faithful friend. Do not grieve for me. All good things must come to an end,
si?”

In which Lord Chesley plans a Grand Aventure.

Autumn, 1830

A
h, well, all good things must come to an end,” murmured the Marquis of Devellyn as he peered into the bay window of Piccadilly’s most exclusive jeweler. “Try to look upon marriage, my friend, as the beginning of a new life; one which is rich with possibilities.”

“Yes, and a bloody awful lot of impossibilities, too,” said the Earl of Wynwood.

Devellyn grinned slyly. “Such as?”

“Such as my setting up Ilsa Karlsson in a quiet little house in Soho, which has long been a notion of mine.”

Devellyn nodded. “A tragedy,” he agreed. “Though Ilsa is a touch above your usual fare, old boy. In any case, we are here to buy a wedding gift for your bride-to-be, are we not?”

Wynwood pointed at a bracelet set with large red cabochons. “Well, what of that one?” he asked. “I rather like the color. Rubies, are they?”

“Merely garnets, I fear,” said Devellyn. “So do not even think of it; neither the garnets
nor
the talented Miss Karlsson. The cheaper stones your new bride may not notice, but that dragon of an aunt of hers most assuredly will. And Ilsa, well,
she
never goes unnoticed. For you, Quin, it must be real rubies and true fidelity, I am afraid.”

Lord Wynwood made a pained expression, and seized hold of the door handle. “Well, come along, then,” he said. “We might as well go in and get something.”

A little bell jangled high overhead as they entered. A fulsome young woman was polishing away at the expanse of glass which topped the wooden cases, and the tang of vinegar was sharp in the air. “Why, good afternoon, my lord,” she said, flashing Devellyn a knowing smile. “And Mr. Hewitt, is it not? I trust you both are well?”

“Fine as a five pence, ma’am,” said the marquis cheerfully. “But Mr. Hewitt is Lord Wynwood now. Accordingly, you may charge him extra.”

The woman laughed throatily. “My lord, how you do jest!” she said. “I fear my husband is out on an errand. May I help you until he returns?”

Wynwood looked up from a diamond bracelet he had been looking at, but not really seeing. “I wish, I suppose, to see some jewelry,” he managed. “Diamonds, perhaps? Or—or emeralds?”

“You must pardon his uncertainty, Mrs. Bradford,” interjected Devellyn, winking at the jeweler’s wife. “My friend is looking for a gift for a very special sort of occasion.”

Mrs. Bradford lifted her finely arched brows. “Why, we at Bradford and Burnet make it a point to specialize in special occasions,” she said smoothly. “Do I perhaps hear wedding bells?”

“The death knell, more like, by the look of him!” said Devellyn, laughing. “ ’Tis a gristly tale, ma’am, of yet another fine and lusty lad about to be torn from his happy bachelorhood and hoisted high in the noose of holy matrimony.”

“Oh, well, a hoisting definitely calls for fine jewelry,” said Mrs. Bradford with a straight face. “Are you looking for a wedding ring, my lord?”

“No!” Lord Wynwood’s head jerked up like a startled stag’s. “I mean…not quite yet.”

“Just a betrothal gift,” added Devellyn. “There is to be an engagement party, and he wishes to make the occasion very special for her.” He paused to gently elbow his friend. “Is that not right, Quin?”

Again, Wynwood looked up. “Quite so,” he muttered. “I want something, er, you know.
Special.”

Mrs. Bradford smiled brightly and inched farther down the counter along with Wynwood. “And you were thinking of diamonds?” she echoed. “But not a ring. Perhaps a bracelet? Or a brooch?”

“A necklace, I think,” said Wynwood.

“Yes, a very fine one,” added Devellyn. “She is quite a special young lady.”

Ever the cynic, Wynwood was beginning to wonder how many more times they could all manage to use the word
special
before this taxing business was done with. He had a deep and abiding hatred of jewelry stores. And Dev was being damned pushy about this marriage, too, almost as if daring him to go through with it. Just now, Dev was urging him farther and farther down the showcase; pushing him, it seemed, toward the inevitable permanence of the wedded state.

Oh, bloody hell. Best pick something, then. Something special, of course. But it all looked the same to him. “That one,” he said, pointing at a heavy collar of beaten gold set with a fat, multifaceted chunk of some blue-green stone. “It is not a diamond, but it looks very…grand.”

Devellyn leaned nearer. “Er—I don’t think so, Quin,” said the marquis.

Mrs. Bradford was frowning vaguely. “Is she a very young lady, my lord?” she asked. “And what color, pray, are her eyes?”

“Her eyes?” Wynwood pondered it. “Well, her eyes are…well, they are sort of…” The devil! What color
were
Miss Hamilton’s eyes? “They are hard to describe, but—”

“Green,” Devellyn interjected. “She is very small, and very young, and her eyes are cool mossy green with some little flecks of gold. That collar would weigh her down like chain mail and clash with her eyes most abominably. Really, Quin, I begin to wonder if your brain is fully engaged.”

Wynwood scowled. “You are forgetting, Dev, that I have not lived a life which revolved around slavishly indulging a string of expensive, overly emotional opera dancers.”

“Oh, no indeed!” agreed the marquis in a low undertone. “The class of women you usually consort with prefers a cash transaction.”

Mrs. Bradford let an indelicate little snort of laughter escape, then turned away, her face flaming.

Devellyn cleared his throat. “Well, I should like to see some earbobs, Mrs. Bradford,” he said, as if nothing untoward had occurred. “I’ve a mind, Quin, to buy Sidonie some sapphire earbobs to go with that gown she wore to Mamma’s dinner party the other week. What do you think?”

“I think you ought to buy her a pair every week,” his friend returned. “Otherwise, she might come to her senses and begin to wonder why she married you.”

Devellyn grinned, and proceeded to have Mrs. Bradford pull out three or four velvet trays, which he inspected with meticulous devotion. He was very keen indeed, Wynwood had noticed, on pleasing his own wife.

Wynwood, however, had just about lost interest in his task. Oh, he wished to please Miss Hamilton. He truly did. But the truth was, he did not know Esmée as well as a gentleman might wish to know his fiancée. He knew, of course, that she was beautiful. She was also refreshingly pragmatic and straightforward. He could not have borne a silly, simpering London miss, or one who would rather manipulate a man than tell him the truth straight out. God knew he’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

Esmée, of course, did not love him. That was just one of the many pragmatic, straightforward truths she’d told him. But love was not necessary, or even gratifying, to Quin. He and Esmée would learn to rub along tolerably well. Of that, he had no doubt. Esmée was easy to get along with, and easy on the eyes, too. He looked very much forward to having her in his bed, and even more forward to giving her his child—preferably the son which his mother so desperately needed.

His father’s death had been premature, unexpected, and most untimely. And at the age of not quite thirty, Quin had had no wish to give up his carefree bachelorhood in order to save the Hewitt dynasty from collapse.

His mother, however, was in a state of near panic now, though her good breeding and well-honed restraint hid it from all save those who knew her well. If Quin died without an heir, all would go to the dreaded Cousin Enoch, who would—and his mother did not exaggerate this—promptly toss her into the street. His mother would be left a dependent of her younger brother, Lord Chesley, or packed off to Oxfordshire to live with Quin’s sister, Alice. And his mother would sooner die than do either.

So the dynasty it must be. He and Esmée were going to retire to Buckinghamshire and have three or four children, and a reasonably happy life. To that end, Quin told himself, he was prepared to make whatever sacrifices were necessary, his fantasies of Ilsa and his flagrantly wicked ways—well,
most
of them—included. It was worth it to have Esmée. For if not her, then it would be some girl solely of his mother’s choosing.

“I shall take these,” he heard Devellyn say.

Mrs. Bradford named a price that would have bought one a piece of freehold real estate in Chelsea. Devellyn agreed without a second thought, then turned to Wynwood. “What of you, Quin?” he asked. “What have you chosen for your pretty Scottish lass?”

“I am undecided,” he admitted. “I think I had best talk to Lady Tatton first. She will know what her niece’s preferences are, will she not?”

“Or Alasdair?” suggested Devellyn, as Mrs. Bradford disappeared into the depths of the shop to wrap his purchase. “You ought to just ask Alasdair what he thinks Esmée would like. He is very fond of her, and knows her better than anyone. I am sure he could best advise you.”

Wynwood felt his temper flare. Sir Alasdair MacLachlan was one of their most disreputable and amusing companions. Or at least, he had been. Nowadays, however, Alasdair was behaving very oddly. Like Esmée, Alasdair was a Scot. And due to a convoluted misadventure involving a New Year’s masquerade, and far too much whisky, it appeared that Alasdair was also the father of Esmée’s infant sister, though almost no one knew it. Wynwood
did
know it, and he was getting damned tired of Devellyn bringing both of them up in the same breath. What the devil was the man getting at?

Just then, a clock could be heard striking somewhere in the depths of the shop.

“Devil take me!” said Devellyn. “Is that the time? I’m late for a tea in Grosvenor Square. Mamma will have my head on her best Minton platter. Mrs. Bradford?
Mrs. Bradford!
I must have that package, if you please.”

The jeweler’s wife bustled back into the shop and presented a sheet of foolscap requiring the marquis’s signature. After scrawling something illegible across it, Devellyn tucked the box in his pocket and patted Wynwood solicitously on the shoulder. “Buck up, old chap!” he said, before bolting out the door.

Mrs. Bradford was setting down Devellyn’s purchase in a green baize ledger. “May I show you anything else, my lord?” she enquired, flicking a neutral glance up at him.

“No, I think not, thank you,” he said, slapping his hat back on his head. “I will make enquiries as to the lady’s preferences and return another time.”

Quin went back out into Burlington Arcade and strode toward the pressing rush of Piccadilly. All along the street, dead leaves were swirling, some of them so bold as to blow back into the entrance of the elegant arcade itself. The autumn day was surprisingly clear, though the air was sharp, portending winter’s swift approach.

Pausing on the pavement, he narrowed his eyes against the brightness, feeling vaguely disoriented. Lord, he’d felt a fool inside the small, overheated jeweler’s shop. Devellyn was right; he did not consort with the sort of women for whom one bought fine jewels. Not any longer. And even when he had done so, it had been rubies, and nothing less.

That was why the garnets had caught his eye. He had seen them, and for a moment, he had thought of…well, of Viviana Alessandri. He had realized his misjudgment at once. Garnets had never been good enough for her; he’d known that much without asking. The rich, bloodred ruby had always personified Viviana, and her delicate, faintly olive skin had made them shimmer with life. So he had chosen each bracelet, brooch, and necklace with the utmost care, just as Devellyn had chosen the sapphire earbobs for his beloved Sidonie.

But for all the care he had put into each, Viviana had turned around and sold it, quite heartlessly and calculatingly—to pay off her dressmaker, or settle her gaming debts, he supposed. Which was, of course, her prerogative as a kept woman. Or more accurately, as a whore. And at the end of that awful, heart-wrenching affair, he had told himself that never again would he expend his emotional energy in choosing a gift—even the slightest bauble—for any woman. For the last nine years, he had not so much as darkened the door of a jewelry store. Until today.

Quin set off down the street in the direction of Green Park, but just a few yards along, he paused opposite the Bath Hotel. A fine coach and four had drawn up near the corner, where a gentleman and a lady were engaged in an animated quarrel, hands moving almost as fast as their words. He realized at once that they were wealthy, and that they were foreign. Their fine attire made plain the first. As to the latter, members of the English
ton
would sooner die than be seen squabbling in the street like fishmongers.

The lady’s face he could not see, but he had the strangest notion she would be stunningly beautiful. The gentleman was elderly, stooped, and somewhat frail in appearance. He was, however, holding his own. Quin caught snatches of the language, too. Italian, or something similar. As if he were the veriest rustic, Quin stopped to gawk, though he could not have said why.

Amidst all the waving and scolding, the crux of the argument was easy to discern. The lady wished the gentleman to get into the carriage. The gentleman wished to walk. The argument continued for a few more sharp words, then the elderly gentleman moved as if to leave her.

At last, the woman threw up her hands, signaling her surrender. The elderly gentleman hesitated. In an almost maternal gesture, the lady’s fingers went to his muffler, pulling it snug around his neck and tucking the ends into his greatcoat. The gentleman bracketed her face in his hands, and kissed her once on each cheek, then set off in the direction of Mayfair.

And then she turned around.

Quin felt the breath suddenly slammed from his body.

As a boy, he’d once rushed a fence he’d no business jumping. His horse had had better sense. Quin had been tossed off to one side, where he’d landed ignominiously in the grass, his heart in his throat and gasping for air for what seemed an eternity.

This time, the boyish ignominy lasted only a moment. It was replaced by a burning, righteous fury. Yet the proud lady spared him not a glance before mounting the steps into her carriage and lifting a gloved hand to signal that they should depart.