Julia Quinn: It's In His Kiss

“I don’t know,” Caroline said. “I didn’t even know it existed until I found it in George’s desk earlier this week. He never mentioned it.”

Gareth looked down at the diary, at the elegant handwriting forming words he could not understand. His father’s mother had been the daughter of a noble Italian house. It had always amused Gareth that his father was half-Italian; the baron was so insufferably proud of his St. Clair ancestry and liked to boast that they had been in England since the Norman Invasion. In fact, Gareth couldn’t recall him ever making mention of his Italian roots.

“There was a note from George,” Caroline said, “instructing me to give this to you.”

Gareth glanced back down at the book, his heart heavy. Just one more indication that George had never known that they were not full brothers. Gareth bore no blood relationship to Isabella Marinzoli St. Clair, and he had no real right to her diary.

“You shall have to find someone to translate it,” Caroline said with a small, wistful smile. “I’m curious as to what it says. George always spoke so warmly of your grandmother.”

Gareth nodded. He remembered her fondly as well, though they hadn’t spent very much time together. Lord St. Clair hadn’t gotten on very well with his mother, so Isabella did not visit very often. But she had always doted upon her due ragazzi , as she liked to call her two grandsons, and Gareth recalled feeling quite crushed when, at the age of seven, he’d heard that she had died. If affection was anywhere near as important as blood, then he supposed the diary would find a better home in his hands than anyone else’s.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gareth said. “It can’t be that difficult to find someone who can translate from the Italian.”

“I wouldn’t trust it to just anyone,” Caroline said. “It is your grandmother’s diary, after all. Her personal thoughts.”

Gareth nodded. Caroline was right. He owed it to Isabella to find someone discreet to translate her memoirs. And he knew exactly where to start in his search.

“I’ll take this to Grandmother Danbury,” Gareth suddenly said, allowing his hand to bob up and down with the diary, almost as if he was testing its weight. “She’ll know what to do.”

And she would, he thought. Grandmother Danbury liked to say that she knew everything, and the annoying truth was, she was most often right.

“Do let me know what you find out,” Caroline said, as she headed for the door.

“Of course,” he murmured, even though she was already gone. He looked down at the book. 10 Settembre, 1793 …

Gareth shook his head and smiled. It figured his one bequest from the St. Clair family coffers would be a diary he couldn’t even read.

Ah, irony.

Meanwhile, in a drawing room not so very far away…

“Enh?” Lady Danbury screeched. “You’re not speaking loudly enough!”

Hyacinth allowed the book from which she was reading to fall closed, with just her index finger stuck inside to mark her place. Lady Danbury liked to feign deafness when it suited her, and it seemed to suit her every time Hyacinth got to the racy parts of the lurid novels that the countess enjoyed so well.

“I said,” Hyacinth said, leveling her gaze onto Lady Danbury’s face, “that our dear heroine was breathing hard, no, let me check, she was breathy and short of breath .” She looked up. “Breathy and short of breath?”

“Pfft,” Lady Danbury said, waving her hand dismissively.

Hyacinth glanced at the cover of the book. “I wonder if English is the author’s first language?”

“Keep reading,” Lady D ordered.

“Very well, let me see, Miss Bumblehead ran like the wind as she saw Lord Savagewood coming toward her .”

Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes. “Her name isn’t Bumblehead.”

“It ought to be,” Hyacinth muttered.

“Well, that’s true,” Lady D agreed, “but we didn’t write the story, did we?”

Hyacinth cleared her throat and once again found her place in the text. “ He was coming closer ,” she read, “ and Miss Bumbleshoot -”

“Hyacinth!”

“Butterworth,” Hyacinth grumbled. “Whatever her name is, she ran for the cliffs. End of chapter.”

“The cliffs? Still? Wasn’t she running at the end of the last chapter?”

“Perhaps it’s a long way.”

Lady Danbury narrowed her eyes. “I don’t believe you.”

Hyacinth shrugged. “It is certainly true that I would lie to you to get out of reading the next few paragraphs of Priscilla Butterworth’s remarkably perilous life, but as it happens, I’m telling the truth.” When Lady D didn’t say anything, Hyacinth held out the book, and asked, “Would you like to check for yourself?”

“No, no,” Lady Danbury said, with a great show of acceptance. “I believe you, if only because I have no choice.”

Hyacinth gave her a pointed look. “Are you blind now, as well as deaf?”

“No.” Lady D sighed, letting one hand flutter until it rested palm out on her forehead. “Just practicing my high drama.”

Hyacinth laughed out loud.

“I do not jest,” Lady Danbury said, her voice returning to its usual sharp tenor. “And I am thinking of making a change in life. I could do a better job on the stage than most of those fools who call themselves actresses.”

“Sadly,” Hyacinth said, “there doesn’t seem to be much demand for aging countess roles.”

“If anyone else said that to me,” Lady D said, thumping her cane against the floor even though she was seated in a perfectly good chair, “I’d take it as an insult.”

“But not from me?” Hyacinth queried, trying to sound disappointed.

Lady Danbury chuckled. “Do you know why I like you so well, Hyacinth Bridgerton?”

Hyacinth leaned forward. “I’m all agog.”

Lady D’s face spread into a creased smile. “Because you, dear girl, are exactly like me.”

“Do you know, Lady Danbury,” Hyacinth said, “if you said that to anyone else, she’d probably take it as an insult.”

Lady D’s thin body quivered with mirth. “But not you?”

Hyacinth shook her head. “Not me.”

“Good.” Lady Danbury gave her an uncharacteristically grandmotherly smile, then glanced up at the clock on the mantel. “We’ve time for another chapter, I think.”

“We agreed, one chapter each Tuesday,” Hyacinth said, mostly just to be vexing.

Lady D’s mouth settled into a grumpy line. “Very well, then,” she said, eyeing Hyacinth in a sly manner, “we’ll talk about something else.”

Oh, dear.

“Tell me, Hyacinth,” Lady Danbury said, leaning forward, “how are your prospects these days?”

“You sound like my mother,” Hyacinth said sweetly.

“A compliment of the highest order,” Lady D tossed back. “I like your mother, and I hardly like anyone.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her.”

“Bah. She knows that already, and you’re avoiding the question.”

“My prospects,” Hyacinth replied, “as you so delicately put it, are the same as ever.”

“Such is the problem. You, my dear girl, need a husband.”

“Are you quite certain my mother isn’t hiding behind the curtains, feeding you lines?”

“See?” Lady Danbury said with a wide smile. “I would be good on the stage.”

Hyacinth just stared at her. “You have gone quite mad, did you know that?”

“Bah. I’m merely old enough to get away with speaking my mind. You’ll enjoy it when you’re my age, I promise.”

“I enjoy it now,” Hyacinth said.

“True,” Lady Danbury conceded. “And it’s probably why you’re still unmarried.”