‘This one does?’
‘His mother, a proper Gorgon. She reminds me unpleasantly of the Contessa back home. Sharp eyes, an instinct for a lie. I wouldn’t want her standing over me with a whip; she looks like she’d enjoy using it. And she’s asked questions about my family, my origins. Allegra told her exactly what we devised between us so long ago, the tale she believes to be true, but…’
He reached out and took her hand in a strong, callused clasp. ‘You always knew this might happen eventually. Even if this woman could dispatch someone so far away to check, or send letters, which she likely can’t, what would she discover? That the Orlandi Veronese family were noble and distinguished, or thought themselves so, but they’re all long dead; their marble monuments will still be there in the churches, I daresay, to stand witness. That the last count passed on nearly forty years ago, along with his sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued wife, in some epidemic or other. I’m sure the Palazzo Orlandi in the city, and the castle in the hills, belong to greedy, grasping Frenchmen by now, perhaps even to Bonaparte’s family or his blood-sucking generals – just two of the many things they’ve stolen from our poor suffering country. There’s nothing to discover. Not a thing, Tinette. And remember, even if anyone happened by the merest chance to finda portrait of a member of that family, you and your daughters would resemble it – with good reason. They were our kin, albeit we are on the wrong side of the blanket, as they say here.’
She refused to be comforted. ‘One day these wars will be over, and if anyone does think to ask, they could discover that the last Count and Countess – that vicious bitch – left no legitimate children. Certainly no little daughter who went to England to stay with distant relatives.’
‘Mefiola, nobody will remember and nobody will care. You’ve been so brave for so long. Achieved so much. Don’t falter now. It isn’t possible to prove that a person doesn’t exist. Youdoexist.’
‘So did the Count’s bastard half-brother andhislittle daughter. Someone might remember us, and who we really were.’
He shook his head, though she could barely see it. ‘The old nobility – if there are any of them left now – never deigned to notice us, and will recall nothing after so long. And the people who really knew us, if they are still alive, my mother’s cousins and suchlike, they wouldn’t dream of telling anyone anything. Certainly not a foreigner or some cursed spy. We’re safe, my dear.’
‘I don’tfeelsafe. And I don’t want to put Allegra in the power of people who would despise and shun her if they knew the truth.’
‘You always knew this day might come,animabela– probably would come. You need to face it down as you have faced down so much else.’
She sighed. ‘I know. I’m being foolish.’
‘Never that. But do you need to look so high for husbands for my granddaughters? These English aristocrats are no better than the French or Italian ones. Da Costa is an honest man, and his own origins are not English, so he doesn’t care where we come from. Are there not more like him?’
She shifted restlessly on the hard kitchen chair. This was anold disagreement. ‘My second daughter is a duchess! Why should her sisters not be titled ladies? I want them to be secure. To have what I could never quite have, to be in places where no one can question them or look down on them.’
He seemed reluctantly amused. ‘You think such places exist?’
‘They must. I refuse to believe they don’t.’
‘Then you must take these risks, you know that. You are stronger than any of them. Youwalkedto England when you were just a little child, crossing the plains and the hills and the great Alps, and all the weary way through France to the edge of the grey sea. How far is it – a thousand English miles? More?’
She let out a soft laugh. ‘You carried me most of the way,Pader. All those months, I don’t know how you did it.’
‘You were all I had left, so I did what I believed I had to, just as you always have, and will continue to do. I’m proud of you. I wish you thought you could tell your daughters everything. They don’t know what an extraordinary woman their mother is.’
‘I hope they never find out,’ she said drily. ‘Or what has all this been for?’
26
While Allegra was considering her problematic proposal, while her mind was elsewhere, the world still turned, and the Season progressed towards its inevitable end. Assemblies and all the other entertainments still took place, for a little while longer, and she attended them, though she felt herself to be distracted and not fully present.
No further opportunity to be alone with Mr Severin arose, and she did not seek one, though she saw his dark, sardonic face in the crowd on several occasions, and their eyes met and locked, burning with all their explosive shared knowledge. This man had seen her naked and exposed, had seen her as perhaps no one else ever would. She did not know if she was glad or sorry that there seemed nothing more that could be done or said in safety; she only knew she must not share Lord Milton’s dangerous secret with him, even if she was occasionally tempted to make an opportunity to do so. It occurred to her to wonder if he’d known it all along somehow, and that knowledge lay behind his vague words of warning – unless, of course, he was just incurably cynical about human nature and this time had turned out to beright. And no doubt he had secrets himself, too, over and above the gossip that swirled about him. She knew he must.
The fine weather continuing, there was by general agreement among the younger people for an enormous picnic in Richmond Park one afternoon, to which Lord Milton drove her in his curricle. His groom was perched up behind them, as decorum dictated, ensuring that there could be no private conversation; they spoke of indifferent matters as he manoeuvred his matched greys through the London traffic. She had come to no decision, and, for a wonder, her mother had still not put her under any pressure to commit herself. Yet.
Sir Harry remained ubiquitous, but was not the sort of man to make himself unpleasant; she had seen little of Mr Englishby over recent days, which was all to the good. Her choice seemed unavoidably stark: Lord Milton or Sir Harry. She knew – her mother had told her often enough – that just a little push, just a little feminine manipulation on her part, would probably induce the guileless young Baronet to make a fresh offer for her that would become real if she chose to take it so. He might be a little surprised at first, to find himself treated seriously by her at last, when she had always turned his words aside before and declined to understand him; she could ignore that, swallowing all self-respect, and she’d be betrothed, because he was, she thought, a man of honour who would stand by his word, however much he might not want to. It could be as simple and as ugly as that, if she could bear to be that ruthless a woman. But still she couldn’t quite bring herself to face the prospect, for his sake, as well as her own.
Once they reached their destination, she and His Lordship joined a larger group, and so there was no greater opportunity to talk alone. He might perhaps have made one – suggested they go for a stroll together across the lovely summer parkland –but he did not. She appreciated his forbearance, but it did not make her decision any easier, since she knew that it stemmed from an ambivalence as substantial as her own, or even more so.
After everyone had eaten, a drowsy silence fell, but soon many of the more energetic gentlemen, including Sir Harry, who had smiled sunnily and bowed to her but not come over to engage in conversation, proposed an impromptu game of cricket. Rather to Allegra’s surprise, Lord Milton was invited to join by several persons, and accepted with only a slight show of reluctance; apparently, he had been a famous player while at Eton, and the younger men were keen to see if he still retained his former prowess.
This fresh start necessitated much rearranging of picnic rugs and baskets by the spectators, mostly female, who retreated to the edge of a small spinney for shade and safety. Looking at the players, most of them more enthusiastic than competent in appearance, no one could doubt that balls might easily go astray and cause injury, or inconvenience at the least, and broken china. There was inevitably a little confusion, therefore, as blankets and cushions were laid out to everyone’s satisfaction. It was another oppressively warm day, and many ladies fanned themselves and no doubt secretly wished that they were by the sea, or reading in some cool, shady garden, not trapped here, obliged to watch a match that most of them cared little for, and which might go on for hours.
Perhaps she was careless, perhaps her attention was straying, but Allegra found herself suddenly alone under the trees, emptying out scraps of broken meats from a basket of food, and before she realised what was happening Mr Englishby was at her side, seizing her arm in an uncomfortable grip and drawing her further away from everyone else. There was no time to think howto prevent it, given her instinctive unwillingness to cause a public scene that might reflect badly on her.
‘You’ve been avoiding me, Miss Constantine,’ he said unpleasantly, his face too close to hers. She could tell that he had been drinking, and also that he had been waiting for this chance for some time, and meant to make the most of it.
‘Of course I have. I shouldn’t have gone into the garden with you that evening.’ It seemed like months ago instead of a few weeks. ‘It was a mistake, an act of folly, and one I have no desire to repeat.’ She had no wish to be conciliating, even if prudence might dictate that she should; she was too hot and irritated. Mr Englishby had not previously even so much as featured on the extensive list of things and people she was supposed to be currently worrying about; clearly this too had been an error, she thought now, with his fingers digging into her arm and his eyes glittering at her hectically. Just when she had thought life was quite complicated enough, it threw her a fresh challenge. Had she really wanted this man to kiss her just a couple of weeks ago? He repulsed her now.
‘But Severin,hewasn’t a mistake?’
