Chapter 17
Another Fountain and Talk of Lovers
Meanwhile, in Piazza Navona
The look on Patrick’s face continued to betray his sudden jealousy, and Armenia realized she needed to clear up the misunderstanding about her and the Marchese Montblanc or risk losing her escort.
“I assure you, Montblanc and I were never lovers,” she firmly stated.
The tenseness seemed to flow out of Patrick as quickly as the water from the nearby fountain. “Yet, he gave you a house,” he countered in disbelief.
“He knew how much it meant to me, probably because Nicoletta told him,” she explained. “The bequest was written so that no male relative could claim it without my approval,” she continued. “Still, it was a pleasant surprise.”
“And a source of gossip, no doubt,” Patrick said, offering his arm again. He seemed troubled as they made their way toward the south end of the piazza.
“If you’re implying he wanted me to be his lover, I assure you that was never the situation.
He was old enough to be…” She paused, dipping her head.
“Well, almost my father, but he was beholden to Nicoletta. He loved her. Deeply,” she said, allowing a long sigh.
“And her son,” she added, grinning as she remembered how Montblanc spoiled the boy in his early years as a toddler.
Patrick seemed lost in thought, as if he was conjuring an image of the marchesa he had briefly met as she and her second husband, Donald Slater, made the rounds of the ball the night before.
“If you’re thinking Signore Slater was after Nikky’s fortune when he married her, you needn’t be concerned,” Armenia stated. “She is as in love with him as much as Montblanc was with her.”
“And Mr. Slater?”
She gave a start before she tittered. “Donald fell in love with her first, I think,” she said, her gaze on her mind’s eye. “My brother knew it and used him. Poorly.”
Patrick furrowed his brows as they stopped before the Fontana del Moro—the Fountain of the Moor. The statuary in the middle of the water featured an African man holding a dolphin, and there were other carved figures surrounding him. “How so?”
Armenia began her stroll around the fountain, her arms crossing as she studied the marble statuary.
“He had already promised Nikky to Montblanc, but she didn’t know it.
Enrico encouraged Donald to court her. I thought it because he hoped to marry her off to the highest bidder, but he never had any intention of allowing Donald to marry her.
Even if he was the son of an heir to a marquessate in England. ”
Patrick joined her on the other side of the fountain. “Sounds as if your brother had an ulterior motive,” he murmured.
“Oh, he did. I often wondered if he did it to make Montblanc jealous so he would ask for her hand, but in reality, Enrico wanted Montblanc’s vineyards on the side of Mount Aetna,” she explained. “And he wanted his daughter to have a title.”
“Did he get them? The vineyards?”
Armenia chuckled softly. “He did. Had them less than a year before he died, though, so he never had an opportunity to drink any of the wine from his own vines,” she said, obviously pleased. “My nephew—Edoardo—has them now.”
“Huh,” Patrick responded, offering his arm. “Is the wine any good?”
“The Nerello is excellent, of course,” she replied, referring to one of the varietals most commonly grown on the slopes of the volcano.
Instead of heading toward the northern end of the piazza, he led them east along the Piazza di Pasquino. “So Mr. Slater was forced to wait until Montblanc’s death before he could marry Lady Montblanc?” he guessed.
“Indeed,” she said, a grin lighting her face.
“For... how long?”
She lifted a shoulder. “Six... seven years, I think. When Donald met Nikky, he had been on his Grand Tour, but when he learned what my brother had done during a ball, he left for England the very next day,” she explained.
“Am I to understand Signore Slater is the oldest son of the Earl of Bellingham?” Patrick asked, remembering the details from overhearing some of the conversations from the night before.
“Oldest, but illegitimate. His parents are married now, but Bellingham got a child on Barbara before he left for his tour as a commander in the British Navy,” she explained. “She is an earl’s daughter, and they were betrothed at the time.”
“So... that’s why his younger brother... uh, Lord Penton, is the heir?” Patrick concluded.
“Exactly.”
“Just looking at the two of them—you can tell they share the same parents. Does Signore Slater resent Penton, do you think?”
Armenia considered how to respond before she said, “I think it has worked out for the best he is not in line to become the Marquess of Devonfield.”
Patrick furrowed his brows. “Because?”
“Donald won’t be forced to return to England to claim a title. His son is now the Marchese Montblanc.”
“Stepson, you mean,” Patrick murmured, leading her toward the Pantheon.
If they had timed their arrival for when he originally wanted to be there, they would be inside the circular building when the sun was at its zenith and lined up with the hole in the center of the concrete roof.
Given Armenia’s bath and the time it took to dress her, they would be arriving a bit too late to see the full effect of the sun’s rays on the temple’s floor.
When Armenia didn’t offer a reply, he glanced over to see her staring at him with a look of expectation on her face.
Appearing confused, Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Uh... is that not the right word for it? Stepson?” he asked. “I admit to not knowing the Italian word.” When she continued to stare at him, one brow arched, he quickly reviewed the story in his head before realization dawned.
Nicoletta’s son was also Donald’s son.
Apparently Nicoletta’s father believed the Marchese Montblanc was too old to get a child on her, so he had encouraged Signore Slater’s attentions as a means of ensuring an heir.
Poorly used indeed.
He scoffed, his gaze darting about as he remembered everything he had heard the night before. “Damnation,” he whispered.
“I cannot confirm whatever it is you think you have sorted,” she warned. “But relationships are not always what they seem in that family.”
Wondering if she was implying there was even more to the story, Patrick made an odd sound in his throat. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more.