Page 21

This was beginning to feel very much like an interrogation, as if Lady Wellbeloved were a beady-eyed Customs officer examining some very dubious baggage, but Bianca was committed to her lies now – this was hardly a new experience for her – and could not turn back. ‘She went on to Rome, with the intention of making a stay in that city. I’d spent time there already, and so we went our separate ways, and I came home. She may have moved on, of course – she has nothing to tie her to any particular place, now she is widowed.’

‘Really?’ Here it comes, Bianca thought. Luckily, the child she was supposed to be painting this afternoon had taken advantage of the interruption and wandered off out of earshot; he appeared to be carving his name into a valuable piece of antique furniture with one of her painting knives, which he must have swiped when she wasn’t paying attention, but that wasn’t in the least her concern at the moment. ‘I had thought her quite… What is the word? Quite intimately involved with Mr Challender – but of course, I forget, he is Lord Fairmount now!’

Mrs Arbuthnot gave a little exclamation, her eyes practically starting from her head. ‘You mean my cousin Alexander? That Mr Challender? The present Lord Fairmount, not the last one?’

Lady Wellbeloved was triumphant. ‘Indeed I do, child.’

The young hostess tittered genteelly. ‘Well, that can’t be right. My cousin is quite famous as the most moral man in London. I am sure he would never dream of such a thing. If you are implying some sort of irregular connection with Miss Constantine’s cousin, ma’am…’

‘Nor would my cousin,’ Bianca murmured, seizing the opportunity for a pincer attack. ‘She is no great lady, and would not claim to be, but she is a most respectable widow. We lived together in perfect propriety; she was my chaperon, since of course I could not live alone in Venice or anywhere else. I was not acquainted with Lord Fairmount when he was in Italy, nor was I aware that Signora Rossi was, since we hardly moved in such exalted circles, either of us. Does the gentleman speak Italian?’

Mrs Arbuthnot didn’t seem to be angry on her cousin Lord Fairmount’s behalf, only pleasurably scandalised. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t. If it had been his brother, it would be an entirely different matter; he was a shocking creature and quite capable of anything. But really, Lady Wellbeloved, I do think you must be mistaken. Xan would never…’

‘The way a gentleman behaves when he is in a foreign city, hundreds of miles away from everyone who knows him, may well be quite different from the way he behaves at home,’ the old lady said gnomically. ‘I daresay you would be surprised, if you had seen all I have seen.’

Bianca’s gaze met that of her employer, and she ventured to raise an eyebrow a fraction, as if inviting confidences about the eccentric old lady. Mrs Arbuthnot grimaced sympathetically. She’d pulled it off, she thought, at least temporarily.

But there was no question: Xan would have to be told.

33

There was undoubtedly something slightly farcical about this continuing exchange of notes followed by clandestine meetings, but Bianca did not see that she had any alternative. She had no desire to see Lord Fairmount again – especially not after she had refused his ridiculous proposal of marriage on the last occasion – but she certainly could not and should not convey her warning about Lady Wellbeloved on paper; that would be highly dangerous, even if the message was cryptically worded. Letters could so easily fall into the wrong hands. Lord Fairmount might be careless of what he wrote, but she could not afford to be.

So she sent one of Sabrina’s footmen over quite openly with a sealed missive. She had been in a sense the Earl’s employee until quite recently and had a perfect right to communicate with him. There was no need for the man to wait for a response; Xan would come, reluctantly, to the rendezvous next morning or he would not condescend to do so at all.

It occurred to her, of course, that her correspondent might imagine she had changed her mind upon reflection and decided to accept him, but she could not help that. She could hardly add a post-script. PS: But I still won’t marry you. There might be many more discreet ways of phrasing it, but they’d all still look extremely odd and couldn’t be risked.

This time Bianca was waiting by the statue when His Lordship arrived. He looked haggard, she thought. Still the most attractive man she’d ever seen – that wasn’t by any means a helpful thought, and she pushed it away – but hollow-eyed, as though he wasn’t sleeping well. Probably she looked much the same. No time to worry about that. What she had to tell him was hardly going to mend matters.

‘Lady Wellbeloved is in London,’ she said abruptly when he was close enough to hear her. ‘For reasons I can’t even begin to fathom, she was at Mrs Arbuthnot’s house yesterday, and saw me, and recognised me.’ He swore violently under his breath, and she went on doggedly, ‘She accused me of being Bianca Rossi, and I deflected that – I said that she is my cousin, a few years older than me but resembling me greatly. Nobody can prove that isn’t true at this distance. If Her Ladyship wasn’t convinced, she was at least silenced on that point for a time. But then she said, practically cackling with glee, that she understood my cousin had an illicit relationship with you. Your cousin was horrified, and didn’t believe her, because of your upright reputation, and I cast as much doubt on the rumours as I could, but…’

He was looking at her in horror. ‘It’s like some horrendous, unending nightmare,’ he said raggedly. ‘It doesn’t go away; it just gets worse and worse. If you had agreed to marry me, we wouldn’t be in this mess.’

‘Yes, we would,’ she said robustly. ‘Don’t be a ninny. It’d be far worse then. I’d have no chance of convincing Lady Wellbeloved or anyone else that I didn’t have an affair with you, if we were engaged to be married. Everyone would think you were marrying me because you’d ruined me, which was in fact exactly what you proposed. How would that save my reputation? Of course I don’t care two buttons for that, not in the way you mean, but I’m following your logic, such as it is, not mine.’

‘If you don’t care about your reputation, madam, as you claim,’ he put in spitefully, ‘I wonder you did not simply brazen it out, and tell the old monster that yes, you masqueraded as Bianca Rossi, and yes, you were my mistress, and what of it? What need for all these elaborate lies?’

She all but stamped her foot. ‘Oh, you are a highly provoking man! Do you think your cousin would allow me to continue painting her precious children for a single second after that? Or anybody else? I don’t care two pins about my reputation as a so-called marriageable young lady, because I don’t want to be that, but I’m obliged to maintain a respectable, discreet façade so I can work as an artist – a man in my situation could get away with any amount of scandal, but never a woman. You know perfectly well that those two things aren’t the same, so don’t pretend you don’t! I can’t afford to be notorious!’

They were glaring at each other now, their tones low but vibrating with anger. ‘In that case, Miss Constantine, it seems a pity that you ever let me lay a finger on you! If you had not been so very liberal with your favours, we would neither of us be in this atrocious coil!’

‘I could not agree more, sir! I assure you I do regret it bitterly now.’ In this moment, at least, she did with all her heart. ‘It is also a shame, while we are on the subject of imprudent actions, that you pursued me across Venice in such a public fashion, and gave Lady Wellbeloved – the city’s most famous gossip, and one with an extensive acquaintance in England besides – to understand so clearly that you desired me as your lover. It seems to me that that is at the root of all our current difficulties, and I presume – though you may well tell me that I am wrong – you don’t think to blame me for your own reckless actions! Unless, of course, women are at fault for everything that has happened in the world since Eve ate the bloody apple!’

He did not answer, but passed his hand over his face. After a moment he said, ‘You’re right, of course. I’m sorry, I spoke hastily and unfairly. If you had admitted everything, our situation would be so much worse. I should commend you for your quick thinking. Perhaps matters may still be salvaged now I am forewarned, though just in this moment I can’t see how.’

‘I don’t need your praise, either,’ she said between gritted teeth, somewhat mollified by his apology but unwilling to let him know it. ‘I could quite easily have left it at that and told you nothing, since I believe that I have extricated myself from immediate danger, if not you or my mythical cousin. But – for my own sake as much as yours – I thought you should know exactly what I said to her. That way our stories, if you’re ever put in a position where you have to tell a story, will match. But one thing is certain – now above all, we cannot risk being seen together, not here or anywhere. So I will be quick, then go.’

‘By all means, madam,’ he said icily. He’d thawed towards her for a brief moment, but that had vanished now. ‘God knows I have no more desire to spend time in your company than you do in mine. Please, tell me what you said, and we can part.’

‘I thought you still wanted to marry me?’ some imp of perversity provoked her to say. ‘But very well. Bianca Maria Rossi is my cousin – our mothers were half-sisters – and also an artist. I agree it’s stretching coincidence that we should both be, but what else could I say? I suppose we must be an artistic family on the Italian side. At any rate, we were both named for our shared grandmother. Signora Rossi is some years older than me, and was married for five or six years. She was my chaperon in Venice, and has now gone to Rome, or wherever, I know not. Of course, you may not be expected to know any of these things, because you did not have an affair with her, or even know her particularly well, but that is the burden of what I said. You and I did not meet in Venice, and have only spoken casually of the place since we met in London, if at all. That didn’t come up, but it might in future, I suppose, if Mrs Arbuthnot questions me. Oh – you know, or perhaps you don’t, that Italian women don’t change their surnames on marriage. Rossi must be her father’s surname, but that is fine, because we are related through our mothers. I think that’s everything.’

He was frowning in concentration. ‘I see. I must think on what to do. If I embroider the story further, I will let you know what I said. I will find some safe way to do so.’ Before she could respond to this, he had made her a stiff bow, turned on his heel, and walked away. It was her turn to stare after him in frustration.

34

Lord Fairmount was not the kind of man who could endure the idea of sitting idly by while unsavoury (though unfortunately all too true) rumours began to swirl around his hitherto pristine good name. He could hardly track Lady Wellbeloved across London – he had no idea where she was staying and little taste for the type of louche, antiquated society he thought she’d be likely to move in – but he had to do something. So, in the first instance he went to see his cousin, Mrs Arbuthnot. It was quite permissible to do so, since she was family.

Jessica was about his own age, but they’d never been especially close, not having spent much time together as children. Now, he thought it likely that Lady Deborah had been careful to keep her sons and her daughters away from Philip’s malign influence even as a wild boy in his teens, which was entirely understandable.