A Lady Never Lies Read online

  “Oh no. No, indeed. You’ve quite misunderstood me. Only a dash of humor, you see.” Finn put the newspaper to one side and set to work on his eggs.

  Wallingford, coughs subsiding, dabbed at his watering eyes. “Humor?” he gasped out, clearing his throat with a rough hack. “You call that humor, Burke? My God, you might have killed me.”

  “Really, Wallingford. I should never take out a lease on your behalf. I’ve well enough sordid millions of my own, as you yourself observed.” Finn cast a benevolent smile across the table and reached for his toast. “No, the lease will be entirely in my name. You two shall be my guests, nothing more. Penhallow, the marmalade, if you will.”

  Lord Roland passed him the pot of marmalade as if in a dream.

  Really, it was all proving even more amusing than Finn had imagined. The look of dazed confusion on Penhallow’s face. The slow purpling of the duke’s expression, the whitening of knuckles clenched about two-hundred-year-old silver cutlery.

  Who would speak first?

  Wallingford, of course. “I’m certain, my dear Burke,” he said, biting out the dear Burke in discrete chunks, “I must have misheard you.”

  “I assure you, you haven’t.” Finn spread his marmalade over his toast with neat precision. “My dear fellows, I shall lay my cards upon the table, as they say. I’ve been concerned about the two of you for some time.”

  Wallingford’s expression grew even blacker. “I can’t imagine why. Our poverty, perhaps? Our lack of female companionship?”

  “There it is! There’s your trouble, right there. You don’t even recognize how frivolous your lives have become. You’ve no purpose, no driving force. You drink yourselves into oblivion, night after night . . .”

  Lord Roland set down his fork with a clink. “Now look here. As if I haven’t seen you positively legless, on more than one occasion.”

  Finn flicked that away with a brusque movement of his hand. “Once or twice, of course. One’s allowed a bit of high spirits, now and again. But you’ve made a career of it, you two. ‘Wine, women, and song,’ as the saying goes.”

  “I object to that. There’s been very little song at all,” said Lord Roland.

  “And that of very poor quality indeed,” Wallingford added. “Hardly worth noting.”

  Finn leaned forward and placed his elbows squarely on each side of his plate. “Three days ago,” he said, in a quiet voice, “I came across an old acquaintance of ours, from Cambridge days. Callahan. You’ll remember him?”

  “Callahan, of course. Jolly chap. A bit thick, but good company on a lark.” Lord Roland’s brow puckered inward. “What of him?”

  “He was dead. Choked on his own vomit in his mistress’s parlor in Camden.”

  In the silence that followed, Finn fancied he could detect the tiny scratches of the ancient ormolu clock above the mantel, counting out the passing of each second into eternity.

  “Good God,” said Wallingford at last.

  “Camden,” muttered Lord Roland, as he might mutter Antarctica.

  Finn removed his elbows and picked up his fork and knife. “I came across his funeral procession, you see. They’d taken his body back to the old family place, in Manchester, not far from a machine works of which I’ve been contemplating purchase. An only son, did you know? His mother looked quite destroyed.”

  “There, you see?” Wallingford shrugged. “Our mother’s been gone these ten years. Nothing at all to worry about.”

  Finn went on. “I’m told the body was not even viewable. The mistress discovered him in the morning and fled with her cookmaid. Poor fellow wasn’t found for a week.”

  Wallingford sat back in his chair and regarded Finn with a speculative expression. He crossed two solid arms against his chest. “Very well, Burke. A fine point. The dissipated life ends in ignoble tragedy and whatnot. Women are not to be trusted. Forewarned is forearmed. I shall retire instantly to the country, call for my steward, and endeavor to live a life of sobriety and virtue.”

  Finn had expected resistance, of course. One didn’t go about telling dukes to mend their ways without anticipating a certain bristling of the old hackles, after all. He smiled kindly and said, “I have a proposition for you.”

  “I daresay you do. I daresay it has something to do with castles in Italy.”

  “I have been corresponding for some time with a man near Rome, who’s approaching the same project as I am, only with rather a different plan.”

  “Do you mean these damned horseless carriages of yours?” the duke asked.

  “Damned rubbishy machines,” put in Lord Roland.

  Finn’s gaze rose to the ceiling. “Luddites, the pair of you. In any case, a few weeks ago, my colleague in Rome, Delmonico’s his name, proposed to me the idea of holding a . . . well, I suppose you might call it a competition, a contest, in which the best examples of the machines might be displayed and judged. If enough working engines are brought to the exhibition, he expects to hold a race.”

  “A race!” Lord Roland began to laugh. “A race! What earthly use is that? I daresay I could walk faster than any of your contraptions.”

  “The exhibition,” Finn said, ignoring him, “is to be held in the summer, on the outskirts of Rome.”

  “I begin to see your scheme, old man,” Wallingford said darkly.

  “I shall need the most absolute calm, in order to concentrate on the project without any distractions. And it occurred to me, you see, that a year spent in the peace and tranquility of the countryside, far away from your own circle of degenerates and wastrels, devoting yourself to scholarly pursuits and absolutely proscribing the company of women . . .”

  “Wait. Stop. Do you mean to say,” Lord Roland responded, in incredulous tones, “you intend for us to embark on a year of . . . of . . .” He struggled.

  “Chastity?” the duke supplied, as he might say disemboweling.

  “Why not? There are solutions to hand, so to speak, should one’s urges become uncomfortable. Though I suspect, in the manner of monks, we shall soon be grateful for the serenity and find our own physical needs diminish in response.”

  “You’re mad,” said the duke.

  “I pose it as a challenge,” Finn said. “If I can contemplate it, surely you can. You’re a man of considerable self-control, Wallingford, when you choose to exercise it. And as for you, Penhallow, I can remember distinctly a time when you adopted a far more virtuous approach to living . . .”

  “That was long ago,” Lord Roland said sharply, “and best forgotten.”

  “All the same, you were capable then of restraint.” Finn paused and looked back and forth between the two men, heads hanging toward their plates, forks picking away at the remains of the noble breakfast. “Think, my friends. Think what we can accomplish in a year, if we forgo idle pleasure. A temporary exile, no more. A few months. Study a new subject, learn a new talent. Sunshine and olives and whatnot. The local wine, perhaps; I’m sure we can make allowance for a glass or two, as we establish the rules of our little society.”

  Wallingford looked up. “Absolutely not. The most absurd scheme I’ve ever heard.”

  “You’re mad even to suggest it,” said Lord Roland.

  Finn shifted his gaze to the window. The heavy January sky had begun to shed bits of snow into the yellow air, though it wasn’t quite cold enough to stick. London in winter: how he hated it, all brown and tired and slushy, the atmosphere so thick with coal smoke it seemed to burn the lining from his lungs. “The land of unending sunshine,” he said, in a low voice, and turned back to Wallingford. “At least think on it.”

  “Out of the question,” said Wallingford.

  “Quite impossible,” agreed Lord Roland.

  Finn picked up the paper and folded it with care, flattening the creases just so. “A year away from the miseries of London. A year free of vice and obligation, devoted to study, devoid of the distractions of the fairer sex.” He rose, tucked the paper under his arm, and smiled broadly.

&nbs
p; “What could possibly go wrong?”

  ONE

  Thirty miles southeast of Florence

  March 1890

  She had always maintained high standards. While other young ladies dreamed of finding Mr. Right, Alexandra set her sights on the Duke of Right.

  In the end, she had accepted a marquis, but as Lord Morley had been both extremely rich and extremely old, she still considered her marriage a success. Ask and ye shall receive, went her motto. (It was in the Bible, after all; she was almost certain.) And never, ever settle for second-rate.

  Not even when fleeing from one’s creditors.

  This room was decidedly second-rate. No, not even that. It was little more than a cupboard, hardly larger than the wardrobe in which she stored her summer nightgowns during the off-season. A narrow cot, wedged against the wall, left no space for even a hatbox; the single coarse wool blanket looked a perfect paradise for fleas. It was fourth-rate, even fifth. It simply wouldn’t do.

  Alexandra turned to the landlord. “It simply won’t do, I’m afraid. Non possiblo. Understand? Comprendo? It is too small. Troppo, er, petito. There are three of us. Trio. And the boy.”

  The innkeeper frowned. Perhaps he had not quite understood her Italian phraseology. “The inn, she is full, milady. I make beds in the commons, very warm, very comfort.”

  “Sleep in the commons! Three English ladies! You can’t possibly be serious.” Alexandra produced a chuckle to emphasize the idea’s absurdity.

  “But milady, it rains, the bridge is . . . is flood. The rooms, they are all take!”

  “By whom?” she demanded, straightening her spine to an impressive length.

  “Is a duke, milady,” said the innkeeper, hushed and reverent. “An English duke. His brother, his friend.”

  “The devil you say! Show me their rooms, if you please. Er, chamberos. You see, my good man,” she explained kindly, as she herded him down the narrow creaking corridor, “we have, in my country, a darling little custom by which gentlemen are obliged, absolutely obliged, to relinquish any present comforts for the benefit of ladies in need. It imposes such a perfect civilized order upon the world, wouldn’t you agree, without which we should descend into mere barbarism, like those poor chaps the Romans. This duke of yours, I’m sure, will quite understand. Oh yes!”

  She stopped in the doorway and cast her eyes about the room. This was much more the thing. Large, commodious. A plump double bed in the exact center of the opposite wall, with a wardrobe to one side; a fireplace on the other wall, being tended at that moment by an apple-cheeked young miss with that rippling dark Italian hair one couldn’t help envying, in one’s wilder moments.

  It was plain, of course. The inn formed a remote outpost along an obscure Tuscan road, far from the civilized refinement of Milan or even Florence, but Alexandra was willing to make allowances for the rustic furniture and lack of proper trim work and so on. And after all, the rain lashed harrowingly against the small many-paned window, and the wind howled down the chimney flue. Really, one couldn’t afford to be too particular.

  “It’s ideal,” she said, turning to the landlord. “We’ll take it. And the connecting room as well.” She gestured to the door standing ajar next to the wardrobe.

  The landlord’s face had clearly suffered through a long and rainy winter. It hardly seemed possible those hollow cheeks could lose any further color, and yet, before her eyes, every last remaining atom of pigment drained from the face of her host. “But milady,” he said feebly, “the room, she is already take! The duke have her! A very big duke! Very strong duke! And his brother, his friend! All very big!”

  “Yes, isn’t it extraordinary? I often find that large-framed men tend to befriend other large-framed men, and vice versa. One imagines it must arise from one of those clever little laws of nature one reads about from time to time. Indeed, I should very much like to discover why. A large duke, you say?” She cocked her head and turned to walk back to the staircase. “It can’t be Wallingford, do you think? Wallingford in Italy? I never heard anything about it.”

  “Wallingford! Yes!” the landlord exclaimed, trotting behind her. “Is Wallingford! He will not like!”

  “Oh, rubbish. Wallingford has a sharp bark, I grant you, but really he’s as gentle as a lamb. Or perhaps . . . perhaps a sort of youngish ram.” She poised at the top of the staircase, nearly flattened by the mingled scents of woodsmoke and wet wool and roasting meat, rising up in a fug from the bustle of the common room below, and went on with renewed determination. “In any case, quite manageable. Just leave everything to me, my good fellow. I shall have it all sorted out in short order.”

  “Milady, please, is not so bad, the commons . . .”

  “It isn’t at all acceptable, non possiblo, do you hear me?” she said, more loudly, just to be sure he understood. “We are English, anglese. We can’t possibly . . .” She paused about halfway down the stairs and turned to scan the noisy wood-beamed room, with its long tables and bowed hungry heads. She had little trouble finding the one she sought. “Oh! Your Grace!” she called, infusing her voice with just the proper balance of surprise and gratification.

  The Duke of Wallingford seemed to have been expecting her. His lean face wore an expression of deep resignation, and he muttered something to his companions before he tossed his napkin on the table and stretched his limbs to their full forbidding height. “Lady Morley. Good evening. I trust you’re well.” He seemed, to Alexandra’s ears, to growl rather than speak.

  She drew in a fortifying breath and continued down the stairs. “Darling Wallingford, you’re just the man I was hoping for. I can’t seem to make these Italian fellows understand that English ladies, however sturdy and liberal minded, simply cannot be expected to sleep in a room with strangers. Male strangers. Foreign male strangers.” She stood before him now, smiling her winning smile, the one that had laid waste to haughty noblemen beyond number. “Don’t you agree, Your Grace?” she finished softly, looking up at him beneath her eyelashes, delivering the coup de grâce.

  His face remained hard. “Are there no rooms available upstairs, madam?”

  She made a helpless shrug. “A small room, a very small room. Hardly large enough for Lady Somerton’s boy to sleep in, let alone the three of us.” She glanced aside to his companion. His brother, she remembered the landlord telling her, and everyone knew Wallingford’s brother was . . .

  “Lord Roland!” The enormity of it exploded in her brain. Her thoughts fled outside, to the sodden innyard where she’d left her sister and her cousin to see to the disposition of the baggage, not a quarter hour before. “I’d no idea! Have you . . . my cousin . . . Lady Somerton . . . good God!”

  Lord Roland bowed. Thank goodness, Alexandra thought, thank goodness he was a charming, well-bred rascal, nothing like his arctic brother. Society had decreed the younger man the handsomer of the two, though in fact their features were clearly cast from the same symmetrical mold. Perhaps it was his coloring, which was lighter than Wallingford’s, his eyes a friendly hazel next to the blackened orbs of his brother, and his golden brown hair giving him the air of a particularly enthusiastic retriever. He spoke, however, with subdued formality. “I had the great honor of meeting her ladyship outside on the . . . the portico, a moment ago. And her charming son, of course.”

  Something caught in Alexandra’s throat; she wasn’t quite sure if it was a laugh or a groan. Lord Roland and Lilibet stumbling into each other on the portico, after all these years! Good God!

  “Charming! Yes, quite,” she got out at last. She felt hideously wrong-footed, with several pairs of fascinated male eyes witnessing her confusion. It was intolerable. She rallied and cleared her throat, hoping the motion would cause something more rational to tumble out into the thickening silence.

  Nothing did, however, and she was forced to turn back to the duke. “Look here, Wallingford, I really must throw myself on your mercy. Surely you can see our little dilemma. Your rooms are ever so much larger—palatial,
really— and two of them! You can’t possibly, in all conscience . . .” A thought occurred to her. She turned back to Lord Roland and fixed him with a beseeching smile. “My dear Penhallow. Think of poor Lilibet, sleeping in . . . in a chair, quite possibly. With all these strangers.”

  Lord Roland’s expression turned stricken. She opened her mouth to pursue her advantage, but before she could speak, a voice intruded to thwart her.

  “Did it not, perhaps, occur to you, Lady Morley, to reserve rooms in advance?”

  For an instant, she was confused. That resonant timbre could only come from a singularly spacious chest, and the clipped tones and rumbling impatience could only come from an Englishman. But it was not Wallingford, nor was it Lord Roland.

  Oh, of course. The third man.

  She knew better than to acknowledge him at once. She was not the Dowager Marchioness of Morley for nothing. She counted off one second . . . two . . . three . . . and then turned in the direction of the voice.

  He was not at all what she expected.

  Wallingford’s friend. Who the devil was he? He was tall, of course—extraordinarily tall, topping even the duke by a good three or four inches—and broad shouldered. She’d known that already, Wallingford and his pack of goons. But a voice that dark, that silky, that weighty ought to belong to one of your saturnine characters, your brooders: all black hair and eyes, like Wallingford himself. This fellow was ginger haired, with lawn-green eyes and freckles, actual freckles, an unmistakable dusting of them around the bridge of his nose, descending across the strong, wide wedge of his cheekbones. A damned leprechaun, if leprechauns had blunt bones and stern eyes and ran to nearly six and a half deuced feet in their curly toed stockings.

  Surely she was equal to an overgrown leprechaun.

  “As a matter of fact, it did, Mr. . . .” She dropped a devastating pause, a pause that might have brought lesser souls to their knees. “I’m so terribly sorry, sir. I don’t quite believe I caught your name.”

  His expression didn’t change, not by so much as an ironically elevated eyebrow.