Page 29

‘I’m sorry,’ she said when he did not immediately answer her. ‘I can see that it might not be an agreeable thing to hear. But you asked for honesty, and that is what she said to me, when I told her of our involvement in Venice.’

‘No, I cannot complain of it. I have felt the same.’ He did not say that he felt so now; in this moment, he did not know what he felt, except that he neither wished to leave nor wished Bianca to leave him. If they could just stay here, in this place that was theirs alone… but he knew in his heart that they could not. She was braver than he was, he thought in that moment, and a second later, she proved it.

‘Well, you have your life to live too. You are an earl, and a father. It’s obvious that your aunt, for one, thinks that it is high time you marry again, and give Adrian a stepmother and perhaps siblings.’

‘She has made that sufficiently obvious,’ he said drily. ‘And I cannot say that she is wrong. But it is no easy matter, to find a woman who will care for him as he deserves. It would be rash, for one thing, to imagine that a girl barely out of the schoolroom, like Miss Meacham or another such, would be able or even willing to do so.’

‘I am sure you will find someone,’ she said quietly. ‘There are many warm-hearted women in the world.’ It was a most uncomfortable topic, and he could tell that she was sorry she had raised it. So was he. He had a strong desire to tell her that Adrian missed her, which was true – the child rarely mentioned her name and did not ask when he might see Miss Constantine again, but Xan knew that he was thinking it, and had only failed to raise the topic because he had no idea what he should say. But how could Bianca reply to such a comment? It would be unfair to mention it.

They argued a little over how exactly they should leave this place, and when. Eventually they agreed that he would go at dawn, and she a little later; she did have a house key in her reticule, and could creep in if she made sure to do so before the servants were stirring. He would walk about – perhaps go to the park and stroll there – till a more respectable hour, and then go home, but clearly she could not do such a thing without attracting unwelcome attention. He snuffed out the guttering candles and opened the curtains and the window a little, so that the light and early-morning noise from the street would wake him in time.

But he did not sleep.

Bianca was breathing softly and regularly beside him, in a way he found strangely affecting; it had been a long time since he had lain in a bed with a sleeping woman, and his only experience of that had, naturally, been with Louise. They had not shared a bedchamber, as people of quality generally did not, but sometimes when he had gone to her, he had stayed until morning and then crept quietly away to his own bed, anxious not to disturb her rest. These nights and mornings had always struck him as more than a little awkward; he had never slept well when with her, and it seemed to him that she did not either, though he could not find a way to ask, but when he left her without a word, that too had seemed wrong. As so often in his marriage, he had felt that nothing he did could ever be correct, or enough. There must always be some other, better way to behave, and yet he had no clue what it might be, and if Louise knew, she did not tell him until it was too late. After all, he’d only been twenty, and fresh from Cambridge, when he had been informed by his father that their wedding would be taking place in a couple of weeks, and Louise was just nineteen. His mother had been dead a couple of years by then, and he doubted she would have had any advice for him even if she had lived to see him wed, except perhaps to treat his wife better than she had ever been treated, which was a very low standard indeed.

He did not feel awkward now. He could see in the light of the false dawn – he would have to dress and leave soon, and wake her when he did so that she did not oversleep – Bianca’s dark hair spread across the pillow, and she was slumbering soundly, not tossing in restless motion. I could have this always, was the thought that slithered unexpectedly into his head and lodged there. Her, in my life and in my bed, forever. But that wasn’t true. She had made it very clear last night what she did and did not want. This – being together in this room and this bed – was entirely temporary and he would never experience it again. So he lay and listened to her breathing and wondered how it had come to this. Soon they would part, and it would be forever. To imagine anything else was the purest folly and self-indulgence.

48

It was a sombre farewell when it came. Xan left at dawn, as they had agreed, and though neither said so, it seemed unlikely that they would meet again. They might see each other fleetingly in the square while she remained here, or bump into one another somewhere else, as people sometimes did, even in London. But there would be no repeat of the night they had spent together. She would not be his mistress again; it was too dangerous, for many excellent reasons. And soon enough she did not doubt that she would open a newspaper and read that Lord Fairmount was married to some highly suitable woman, or perhaps one of her sisters would write to tell her the news. And she would bear it. She must.

Bianca experienced no difficulty in gaining the safety of her chamber that morning. The streets were still almost deserted, it being a little too early for deliveries, and she was muffled up in a dark cloak, attracting no attention from the few pedestrians she saw. It seemed quite likely to her that Xan was lurking somewhere, making sure she got home safely, but if he was, she did not spy him, nor did she want to. It was over.

She had a key and used it carefully, locking the big door behind her, and was as quiet as she could be when she crept up the stairs. But Sabrina came out all the same, wrapped in a milk-stained peignoir with her baby over her shoulder. Mrs Da Costa brushed aside her apologies, saying with a weary smile that no woman who had children ever slept properly again afterwards, and asking with a deceptively casual air if she was quite well. When she answered, not entirely truthfully, that she was, her sister embraced her briefly, offering baby Anna’s head for a kiss, and advised her to sleep in as long as she liked. ‘I’ll tell Laurence and everyone else that the ball you went to with Viola last night finished so late and you were so tired from dancing all night that you preferred to come straight home and sleep till the afternoon. I am sure nobody will think it at all odd, and you will not be disturbed.’

Miss Constantine thanked her sister rather listlessly, went to her room and slowly undressed, trying and failing not to think of Xan’s hands warm and urgent on her just a few hours ago, and trying too not to look at the Carriera miniature that hung on a stand beside her. It was, after all, despite the hidden meaning she had invested in it, nothing more or less than a woman painted by her sister, and a souvenir of long-vanished lives that had always been respectable, as far as anyone knew; it offered no advice in circumstances such as these.

She lay in her cool bed as the sky grew lighter outside, the square and surrounding streets noisier, and cursed the fact that she could not sleep when insensibility was all she craved. She was indeed tired, with no need to feign it. She must have snatched an hour or two in that room at Xan’s side, but nothing like enough. Her senses were sated and her body pleasurably sore in various places, as it had not been for a long while, but still she could not find much-needed oblivion.

Nor did she think, if she was honest with herself, that meeting Xan had cured her of her inconvenient obsession with him, but rather the reverse. If she rose from her bed and picked up a block of paper now, she knew what she would draw, and it would not be the early-morning scene she had just walked through, or her luxurious bedchamber, or any of the many picturesque sights she had seen in Europe last year, even though they were graven on her memory. It would be him: his face, his hands, his body.

With a grunt of pure exasperation, she turned over and willed herself into slumber. She would sleep, and hopefully wake rested, and show a tranquil face to her family. If she were to dream of him, she couldn’t help that, could she? Dreams meant nothing. They must mean nothing. It was over.

* * *

Bianca had more or less finished the big portrait of the Arbuthnot children, and thought quite well of it, considering that each of the restless creatures it depicted had been done separately and with a great deal of extra effort. It ought to appear unnatural and stiff; somehow it did not. Even the dogs (including the new puppy, which was confusingly called Monkey) looked like themselves, with a spark of mischief in each eye. But it was much more demanding a task than painting Adrian or anyone else had been thus far, and she was feeling a little jaded as she made her way home a few days later, with Mrs Arthbuthnot’s footman David accompanying her as he always did, in case she should be seized upon by ruthless kidnappers and carried off as she walked a few hundred yards across Mayfair.

She had just turned into the square and was thinking longingly of a cup of tea and Sabrina’s undemanding company when she became aware that she was indeed being pursued, by someone who was calling out her name in an agitated fashion. She turned, as did her tall companion, and she was aware that he was squaring up, apparently glad of the opportunity to defend her person against attack, using his fists if necessary. But then he sagged a little in anticlimax, recognising, as did she, the unusually dishevelled figure of Lord Fairmount, running towards them. She had never seen him in such a disordered, agitated state before, and could not flatter herself that it was simply because he missed her. Of course it could not be that. Clearly something must be seriously amiss.

‘Bianca – Miss Constantine!’ he blurted out as he reached her. ‘I’m sorry to chase you and address you like this, excuse me… But I have been watching out for your return home. My son is seriously ill and asking for you.’

She looked at him, astonished, not understanding, and he went on urgently, ‘My aunt insisted, and of course I agreed, that he should be inoculated against smallpox, along with some of his cousins – not the Arbuthnots, they have had it done already with no ill effects. The procedure happened a few days ago, and all seemed well at first. But now he has had a serious reaction to it. The other children are a little unwell currently, I hear, as was to be expected, but he is much worse. We have had the doctor, and though he is concerned, he reminds us that it cannot be smallpox itself, thank God, only cow pox, which should be no great matter. But the poor child has a high fever and is not quite himself – keeps saying that he meant to show you some picture and did not, and that you must be displeased with him, and that is why you do not visit. I have tried to explain, but… Will you come? I’m sorry to impose on you so outrageously, but we are all of the opinion that if he sees you and is reassured, he may then be able to get some rest and regain his strength. I will not trouble you for long, nor let you carry any contagion back to Mrs Da Costa and her children. Just a few words to comfort him, that is all I ask. You need not touch him or stay by him for more than a couple of minutes.’

‘Of course I will come!’ she said instantly. ‘David, will you be so kind as to tell my sister where I am, and why, and that I will be back in a short while?’

And then she followed Xan across the square, back to that house she’d thought she would never enter again.

49

Xan led Bianca up the stairs to a part of the mansion she’d never seen before, and opened a door. He entered before her, as though afraid that something catastrophic might have happened in his brief absence, and was speaking urgently with someone within. ‘Is he…? Good. I found Miss Constantine, thank God, and she has most kindly agreed to come and see Adrian for a moment or two. Why don’t you go and rest now? I will stay with him, and ring if I need anyone.’

It was Lady Deborah, who also looked much less soignée than she normally did; her face, like her nephew’s, was pale, and there were dark shadows under her eyes that had not been there a week or so ago. She did not speak, perhaps could not, but put her hand briefly on Xan’s shoulder as she left the room, and smiled a trifle unsteadily at Bianca in passing.

Lord Dawbney looked very small and pale lying in his little bed. The curtains were partially drawn to keep out the strong afternoon light, so the divan was somewhat shadowed, but Bianca could see a great number of books on shelves, and also, most incongruously, a large oil painting which had been propped against a heavy chair. It was a Watteau, a scene of finely dressed ladies and gentlemen taking their ease in some shady grove, with glossy horses from which they had just dismounted, and suddenly she felt tears stinging her eyes, and a lump in her throat that made it difficult to speak. ‘The first time I met him,’ she told Xan rather hoarsely, ‘he said that you had a picture in the house with shadows that he liked, and my work reminded him of it. He meant to show me, but somehow he never did, and I had quite forgotten it till now, but obviously he had not. This must be it. Watteau, for heaven’s sake!’ And she stepped forward, sinking down beside the bed and taking Adrian’s hand in hers. She was a little taken aback at how hot and dry his skin was to the touch, and now that she was close, she could see that his neck was swollen and must be painful.

‘You should not,’ Xan said urgently behind her, but she did not heed him. Of course she would not wish to carry infection back to her nephews and nieces, but – Adrian had asked for her. She could not simply speak to him from across the room and then go away, unconcerned, and resume her daily life as if nothing had happened.

The boy was whimpering a little now, turning restlessly in his bed as if he could not be comfortable. But then he opened his eyes, and his face lit up when he saw her. ‘You came, Miss Bianca!’ was his feeble greeting. ‘I thought you were angry that I did not keep my promise.’