Night of Fire Read online

  She swallowed and bent her head, heat radiating from the book into her arms and upward. It was bound in red to go with the title Fire Night.

  Just as she had at the opera, Cassandra forgot to breathe for so long that the edges of her vision began to blacken before she sucked in a great lungful of air. Her head spun with images, and she didn't know if she could read what he'd written after all.

  She most adamantly could not read even one line of the poems while her brother watched. He would see too much.

  "Have you met him?" Cassandra asked, pleased at how ordinary her voice sounded. Her fingers moved over the title, touching each letter.

  "Not yet. He is to give a reading at Child's tonight. I thought I would go—would you like to go with me?"

  Cassandra managed a smile. "Not yet. I'll read it first."

  "As you like."

  She stood. "Thank you, Gabriel." She lifted a brow. "I'll leave you in peace, and please do forgive me for waking you."

  "Not at all." He walked with her to the door, waiting as she tugged on her gloves, the book tucked under her arm. "It is always my pleasure to entertain you."

  She rolled her eyes, noticing the silence once more. "Where is your housekeeper?"

  He crossed his arms. "Sick mother. She had to go to Sevenoaks for the week. She'll be back Monday next."

  "You're welcome to dine with me, you know, if you grow weary of the pubs before then."

  "Thank you." He leaned over and kissed her head lightly. "Do take care, pretty Cassandra. You're always so careful and dignified, but the world will not gasp if you allow us to see your heart now and again."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  He only smiled. "I hope you enjoy the poetry."

  Chapter 13

  Basilio was to give his first public reading and discovered the prospect gave him an odd case of nerves. It was not the work, so much, as the idea of reading his poems to a group of Englishmen who might or might not be predisposed to liking his work. Women, yes. Men, he was not so sure.

  Still, it was an honor, and he could not refuse. To give himself some courage, he paced in the room he'd taken as a study, and practiced reading aloud. His accent concerned him.

  Analise appeared in the doorway, as if called by his frustration. She carried a basket of sewing with her.

  "Would you like an audience? I cannot understand the English, but I am at least a true presence." Her smile was kind and soft, serene.

  It was something he liked about this entirely too young girl—there was a deep, wide pool of serenity that surrounded her like light. Wherever she moved, the quiet followed her, along with whatever house pets might be about. Just now there was a fat gray cat winding about her skirts, and a loose-eared hound, too old for the hunt, limped on arthritic feet to stand beside her, waiting to see where she lit.

  She was very beautiful, this child. She favored simple, modest clothing that hid her voluptuous curves, and wore a cap over her dark hair at all times. He persuaded her to leave it off when they went out.

  But in spite of her kind smile now, he saw the shadows beneath her eyes. She loathed London, the people and the noise and the bewildering language and customs. A prick of guilt and anger stabbed him.

  "What are you sewing today?" he asked politely.

  "Only embroidering handkerchiefs." She plucked a square of fine linen from the basket to show him.

  "Violets."

  "Very pretty."

  "Shall I stay or go?"

  He hesitated. "Please stay." He gestured toward the chair sitting by a sunny window. "Thank you."

  She smiled, a somehow wise smile, for all her youth. "Of course." She put her hands in her lap.

  "You may sew if you like."

  "No, no. I will listen with my full attention."

  He smiled, thinking he was not sure he wanted that full attention, only an audience, so that he could grow used to hearing his own voice. He opened the book and began to read the first lines, not thinking at first of the meanings of the words, only trying to hear how his accent sounded on them, concentrating on the troublesome little consonants.

  Then he came to the dance, the dance around that great, leaping bonfire, and suddenly Cassandra was there in every syllable. He felt surrounded by the essence of her as she'd been that night. The feeling was so strong, so vivid he halted, unable to speak as a fresh memory came to him: her face so white and stricken when he saw her across the yawning gulf of the pit at the opera.

  He had not thought, only acted in a kind of madness that frightened him now.

  Nothing had changed.

  And everything had.

  There, in her chair, biddable and quiet, sat his wife—who was not a woman he could loathe, as he'd hoped, but a child of great innocence who roused his protectiveness. This poem was not precisely a love poem, only a tribute to that night as he'd seen it through Cassandra's eyes and his own. But he did not think it was appropriate, even if Analise did not understand the words.

  He looked up from the page. "I am sorry. Perhaps I do not wish to do this."

  The large blue eyes, so very still, regarded him patiently. "I was enjoying the sound of it. It was like a song in your voice. Very full of love."

  Shame seared him. He bent his head and turned away.

  "Basilio, do not be ashamed of love in anything. It is God's greatest blessing on us, is it not?"

  "Or His curse," he muttered.

  "I did not quite hear you."

  He shook his head. "It was nothing." He frowned a little. "Are you absolutely sure you do not wish to accompany me this evening?"

  "Do you want me to come?" Only her hands showed her agitation, twisting her sewing into a tight coil.

  "Analise, you must learn to say what you are thinking with me. I will not mind, truly. If you loathe the idea, simply say you do."

  She hesitated. "I wish to be there only if it will give you heart, sir. In truth, I dislike this place very much."

  He nodded. "Then you shall stay here and do whatever you like. I have heart enough."

  "I am not betraying you?"

  "No," he said sincerely. "I would have spared you all of this."

  "Yes, I know." Calm once more, she smoothed the fabric in her hands and gave him an encouraging smile. "Please," she said, "continue with your practice reading. It is the least I can do."

  She thought him so very noble. Basilio felt the bitter irony of that. But because he did have to face that crowd tonight and wanted it to go well, he took a breath and began to read. This time he let the feelings spill through him fully, letting his tongue caress the syllables that contained Cassandra. It was for her that all of it had been written. And for her, he would read tonight.

  Cassandra carried the book of Basilio's poems up to her sitting room, where she had so often read his letters, and called for tea.

  While she waited, she stood by the long, bright window, holding the book in her hands, aching over the small intimacy of touching words he'd originally written in his elegant, slanting hand. That handwriting that had had the power to change the direction of her day. A day with a letter from Basilio could not ever be bad.

  Fire Night. She took a breath and blew it out. It was an unusual phrase. An unusual celebration. He had named his poems for it.

  Cassandra had named her essay the same.

  Since her return, she had worked very hard. The translation of Boccaccio engaged her deeply, and she had also been exploring other forms of writing, daring to try forms she'd always thought beyond her.

  Some of them worked and some did not. She was feeling her way, trying to understand what elements, both in herself and in her work, had changed. There was new bravery in her when she went to the page, and she liked herself better for it. The woman she had been seemed a shadow, afraid of everything.

  She had written of Italy, of course. Once she'd recovered a little of her equilibrium, it had been the very best tonic for her flagging spirits. She wrote of Venice as the seductive courte
san Basilio had described, for she'd loved the city. Even in her grief, it had proven irresistible.

  She had also written an essay on that lovely, unusual festival, and titled it Fire Night. It had been published only last week, in a collection of essays on travel. Which her set would also read. Along with Basilio's poems.

  With a soft cry of dismay, she leaned against the glass. Everyone would read the two and know. If there were love poems in his collection, all of London would look right at Cassandra and know for whom they were written.

  The idea of such an enormous invasion of privacy mortified her.

  Joan came in bearing a tray, and Cassandra straightened hurriedly. "Put it on the table," she said.

  "You asked only for tea, but Cook sent up some scones, too. You've not been eating enough, she said."

  Cassandra smiled. "I have discovered a yearning for olives," she said. "Do you not miss that food?"

  Joan looked surprised. Cassandra was not known, after all, for offering or asking confidences. Warily, Joan said, "I do, every now and again."

  Staring at the horizon, Cassandra said quietly, "I loved it there. I'd like to go back someday."

  Joan stood by the door, shifting from foot to foot nervously.

  Cassandra released her. "Thank you, Joan."

  Even then, Cassandra did not open the book. She carried it to the table and poured the tea, adding lemon to the steaming cup, and sugar. She sipped a little, hoping for courage, but only burned her lip.

  She had gained so much courage in her travels, yet in matters of emotion, it appeared she remained a coward. She held Basilio's collected poems in her lap, loosely clasped between her fingers, and remembered a conversation she had had with her sister in this very room. Cassandra had warned Adriana of too much feeling, the passion that had been Adriana's downfall more than once. Adriana had not listened, of course—she was likely incapable of living without passion.

  But till now, Cassandra had found an intellectual base quite pleasing—and if she'd only heeded her own edict, she would not have to sit here now with this ache and this terror and this agonizing anticipation.

  Yet would she trade safety for the extraordinary changes that knowing Basilio had wrought in her?

  Would she change one moment of time they had spent together?

  No. She was honest enough to say that she would not. She had loved him in his letters, and loved him more in the flesh, and loved him still. Might always love him.

  And for all those reasons, for the sake of her heart, which was raw and sorrowful today for all the right reasons, she simply could not open the book. Not yet.

  She simply held it, touching the title, pleased to know that he had been as changed as she by their meeting; that this book would not exist in the world if she had not taken that trip to Tuscany. It had been born of those pure and beautiful days, and she could not regret that.

  The reading went surprisingly well, Basilio thought later, slightly stunned to find himself at the center of an admiring group. George James, the writer who had invited Basilio to England, stood at the outer edges, smiling faintly. He gave Basilio a slight nod and Basilio grinned in return. The attention was heady indeed, and he answered the many questions cheerfully and with a modicum of wit that won him favor with the group.

  When the well-wishers thinned, a man approached. Basilio had noticed him earlier: a tall, very fit figure in a gold-embroidered coat and spotless shirt. He had the golden skin, high cheekbones and slightly tilted eyes Basilio associated with his travels in Spain, but when the man spoke, his English was that of a born and bred London gentleman.

  "Bravo," he said, smiling. "Enjoyed it very much."

  Basilio inclined his head. "Thank you."

  "A few of us are about to leave for a salon at my sister's house. I know she would be delighted to have you come with us." There was an odd light of—what? Curiosity, measuring?— in the long eyes. "Would you care to join us? Some of the finest talents in the city arrive there at some time or another."

  Basilio measured the man in return, wondering if there were some joke afoot. "And you are?"

  "Ah, forgive me. Gabriel St. Ives, sir. My sister is Lady Cassandra St. Ives, and you may ask about her salon from anyone in here. I assure you she is well known."

  A roar shut out the rest of the world as Basilio looked at him. Gabriel—this would be the brother who had nearly been taken by slavers. Basilio sought some sign of resemblance between sister and brother, and with surprise saw there was quite a lot: the wide-set eyes, the cat-slant of cheekbones. And something else, too: for all that the brother was more relaxed, Basilio sensed the same alert and careful poise about Gabriel that he'd observed so often in Cassandra.

  Basilio considered all the reasons he should not go, should not be tempted, but he was not strong enough to resist. He would only see her, only for a moment, then make his apologies. "I would be honored, sir.

  Thank you."

  They got out of the carriage in Piccadilly Street, the address that had once given Basilio such pleasure when he glimpsed it on a letter. It was just going nine—a church bell chimed out the hours as St. Ives settled with the driver.

  Basilio availed himself of the chance to examine the house. Tall and narrow with a small flight of steps leading to the door, it was exactly like its neighbors in the row. All were three generous stories with tall windows overlooking the street, and they struck him as exceedingly English. Proper and neat. He would have expected something else for Cassandra.

  Or perhaps not. He remembered her still poise, her self containment, her distrust of extravagance. He smiled.

  "Ready?" St. Ives asked, tapping his carved teak walking stick on the ground.

  Basilio inclined his head and they climbed the steps. A manservant opened the door to them and took their hats and coats. The foyer smelled of cinnamon, and St. Ives said approvingly, "Ah, Mrs. Hayes has made her famous wine punch." He inhaled heartily and waved the servant away. "Thank you. I know the way."

  Basilio heard voices and laughter—even music—coming from somewhere to the back. The hallway was well-lit and he captured a glimpse of an obviously ill-used room furnished with heavy dark wood. A painting of a landscape graced one wall of the hall, a very golden scene with trees and a distant castle on a hill.

  Something in him eased at the sight of that painting. Her things. Her rooms. It was nearly enough to simply see the way she lived. He took pleasure in the small, startling touches of color she used—a splash of red in a glass jar, a vivid yellow painting in a dark corner.

  From the back came a sudden crackle of laughter from many voices. A clutch of warning tightened around his heart. He should not have come. It was not fair. It was—

  But he was swept into the salon before he could retreat, make an excuse—and what excuse would he have offered anyway? The room was brightly lit and gay, pale blue walls with white-and-gilt accents. An enormous potted plant with white flowers and dark green leaves in the shape of long hearts bloomed profusely by one window. The furnishings were covered in demure but cheerful fabrics.

  He had been expecting to come into the room and see her immediately, but there were too many people.

  Two dozen or more filled the chairs and stood in little knots. A man smoked a pipe by a pair of glass doors propped open to the garden. When Gabriel paused by the door, evidently taking measure of the room, Basilio halted with him.

  Her salon. How often had they discussed it? She wrote of the gatherings often, telling him in her wry, entertaining way of the dress a woman had worn to scandalize her lover to jealousy, or the outcry over a particular pamphlet smuggled from France. Isolated in his villa in Tuscany, far from the scholars at university, Basilio had envied her these gatherings.

  On a sideboard, in a small wooden frame, he spied a painting of a courtesan with red hair sprawled over a baroque divan, her body nubile and tender in its nudeness. One long white hand touched a breast, as if in offering, and a knowing smile turned up only the edges
of her lips. He grinned, remembering when he had sent it—an attempt to scandalize her. Bemused by the resemblance he now saw to Cassandra herself, he turned his attention back to the crowd, looking for her once more.

  They were not the glittering set Basilio had somehow expected: fops and beauties in satin and brocade.

  They were rather a plain lot, most of the men in dark coats of simple cloth, with shoes worn a season too long. The women were similarly demure. No daring decolletages, no breathlessly expensive jewels, no ridiculously elaborate hair styles. These were scholars and bluestockings, and would be dependent on their own cleverness and the generosity of patrons and the vagaries of public taste for their bread.

  There were a few exceptions—a tall man with the ineffable air of nobility, a beautiful brunette in ruby-colored silk that displayed her prodigious bosom to the men clustered about the chair where she held court. St. Ives, beside him, also stood out for his elegance.

  He noticed Basilio's attention to the woman in red silk. "Glorious, isn't she? An actress."

  Basilio inclined his head without much interest. There was only one face he longed to see among the many. Quite suddenly, a roar of laughter broke out to one side. Basilio turned and the group parted, revealing Cassandra.

  As if a horse had stepped on his chest, he froze. Engaged in light banter with a man who was reluctant to allow her to depart, she did not see Basilio. There was still time to plead the headache or some urgent stomach condition.

  But he did not move. Could not. He drank the laughter on her face, the tilt of her saucy smile, the quick, impatient way she brushed away a lock of hair. The man made some jest, close to her ear, and Basilio thought it might be a little ribald— Dio! The jealousy bit deep!—for she lifted one arched brow and spatted him with her fan. Basilio did not miss the disappointment in the man's face as she brushed by, dismissively.

  Still time to turn, to unfreeze and take his leave.