The Lodestone (39 page)

“Good evening, my friend.” Paolo greeted him warmly. “Welcome. I am so delighted to see you again.”

“And I, you.” Garnett was sincere. “I believe congratulations are in order. I’d hoped you would bring your bride.”

“The lady is resting. You will meet her later.” Paolo motioned for the waiter to replenish Garnett’s glass and bring another. “This is the perfect time to visit,” he went on. “Before the fires of revolution become an inferno.”

“So you believe it is unavoidable?”

“Who can say? The nobility is much hated. There are new mobs every day marching on something or other. There is much unrest and I must keep my villa like a fortress—but let us speak of happier things. How long can we count on the pleasure of your company?”

“My business will keep me in port for a week,” Garnett told him. “Say, who did you marry, old man? Damme, but I was surprised to hear the news. I’d thought you rather a bachelor.”

“I found myself longing for a family.” Paolo replied simply. “My wife is from London. I believe you know her. But tell me, what business is it that brings you to Italy? I had heard of your father’s misfortune. My regrets, sir.” When Garnett hung his head, ashamed, the count went on, “If I can be of any assistance, Garnett, you will please let me know. Please do not take offense. I only mean to be a friend.”

“It is appreciated, but I have the matter in hand.” Garnett explained his contract with Drake. “At the end of my year’s commitment, I plan to go into business on my own.”

“Indeed, yes.” Garnett was surprised that it was going so easily. Before he could speak again, his host signaled the waiter and ordered them a sumptuous meal. The exquisite champagne was from Paolo’s own vineyards.

“Well . . .” Paolo pondered for a moment, then grinned broadly. “It must be legal somewhere, but you might consider it scandalous. It involves a lady.”

“Now I
am
intrigued.”

“Excellent!” The count’s face was more animated than Garnett had ever seen it. “We shall enjoy this wonderful feast, and then you’ll come home with me. You must see the villa that has been in my family for centuries. Then you will understand why I will do whatever I must to keep it.”

**

The Villa Paresi was as grand as Paolo had promised, although Garnett was too inebriated by the time they got there to fully appreciate its splendor. A hired carriage took them from the hotel to a gentleman’s club, where they had yet another bottle of wine, and then to a dock where they boarded a well-appointed sloop that took them to the Isola di Paresi. It was very late and Garnett and his host were both very drunk, so they bid each other goodnight and a servant showed Garnett to a luxurious room. With all the talk of revolution, he gave no thought to the armed guards standing at the gate that protected the entrance to the grounds, or to those outside the splendid house, or the two stationed in the hallway outside his room. They bowed to him as if he were visiting royalty, which gave him some satisfaction, as he stumbled to his bed. The windows were opened wide to let in the breeze and a boy was in his room, pulling a rope that operated a big fan overhead. Garnett drifted off to sleep still wondering who Paolo had married.

It was past noon before Garnett awakened to the sound of a light tapping at his door. Before he could respond, it opened and the boy who’d manned the overhead fan entered with a tray bearing sweet rolls, a fruit compote, dark, fragrant coffee and hot, steaming milk. The lad put the tray down, bowed awkwardly and said, “Good morning.”

“Yes, yes,” Garnett groaned. “What do you have for the morning-after miseries?”

The lad simply repeated the greeting and backed out of the room. Garnett got up and wrapped the sheet around himself and then poured equal parts of coffee and hot milk into a cup, added a generous amount of sugar and stirred. There was another knock at the door as he put down the spoon.

“No, no. Stay where you are,” Paolo insisted. “I have much to say. You will want to be comfortable. Have your coffee and one of those pastries while we talk. My wife will be about soon, and these arrangements should not be made in her presence.”

“Oh . . . yes,” Garnett said. “The business you mentioned last night. I assume you want me to arrange some sort of tryst for you. Isn’t it a bit soon, old man—even for you? I mean, wed but a few weeks and you’re already seeking comfort elsewhere?”

“Not at all.” Paolo’s smile was strange and unsettling, Garnett thought. After a moment, the count continued, “Allow me to explain. Let us say there is this . . . acquaintance . . . of mine. He needs the services of a surrogate.”

“A surrogate what?”

“I must first give you a bit of his sad history. He had an injury at birth. The careless midwife thought she was cutting the umbilical cord—well, it doesn’t matter how it happened, except to that unfortunate woman, whom his father had beheaded—but he was rendered incapable of producing an heir. Not incapable of desire, you understand; just unable to do anything about it.”

Paolo moved slowly to the window and stared down into the lush garden below. He seemed to be fighting some secret emotion and once he got it in check, he turned back to Garnett and continued.

“Now, as the years went on, he learned to amuse himself in various ways—he even found various ways to pleasure women who could never pleasure him. He thought he could go on like this forever, but for a strange codicil in his father’s will. If he does not produce an heir or, at the least, get his wife with child by his thirtieth birthday, the entire fortune, except for a modest allowance, will go to the church. He has married and he has less than a year to comply with the terms of the will.”

“But surely his father knew of his disability,” Garnett reasoned. “Why would he make such a condition?”

Paolo’s lips pressed together in a tight, thin line before he spoke again, with obvious bitterness. “His father had a rather twisted sense of humor, I’m afraid. Since he couldn’t love his disfigured son, he decided to torment him. The will was his idea of a joke, or to punish his progeny for some imagined wrong. But the joke is on him, for his son has figured out a way around the codicil. And so he requires the services of a gentleman, educated and refined, who has a certain look about him. He will pay quite handsomely.”

“Dear God,” Garnett whispered, hardly believing the words the count spoke so calmly, as if telling a bedtime story. “This acquaintance—do I know him? Who is it?”

Paolo bowed. “Myself,” he said with almost comic dignity, but Garnett could tell he was sincere.

“But Paolo, at school—and since—I mean, all the women,” Garnett protested, dumbfounded. “Your reputation as a rake of the first order. I’m sorry but I don’t understand.”

“A charade. Carefully staged. I found it amusing. But now I must have an heir.”

Garnett hated himself for asking, for he had no intention of entering into such an arrangement. “How much are you offering for this . . . surrogate?”

“Eight thousand pounds. Four now, and four more when I know my bride has conceived.”

“And she will agree to this?” Garnett was incredulous.

“Without question. She knows how important it is that we have children. My estate is as important to her as it is to me.”
“Is that why she married you?”

Paolo smiled ruefully. “My friend, it is all I have to offer a woman. But she will be quite content with a baby to fill her time. Garnett, you are perfect. We have the same coloring and build, and you need the money. I count you as a friend and after all, you were no angel when we were studying together. You certainly had an eye for the ladies and a talent for bedding them.”

“Very pretty. And she will tell you herself that she is willing to make this great sacrifice. But perhaps you should think it over for a day or two.”

“No,” Garnett said slowly, scarcely believing he would actually do such a thing. “No. If the lady truly is willing, I am agreeable.” With the enormous sum Paolo was offering for but an hour or two of pleasure after the loneliness he’d encountered in his travels, Garnett would be able to establish his own business. He’d be a fool to turn down this opportunity. Never again would he have a chance to make so much money in so little time. “But you must swear that not one word of this will ever go beyond these walls,” he concluded.

“My dear fellow! The bishop is aware of my father’s will. If he learned about my solution to this problem, he would have me excommunicated
and
disinherited. Now, get dressed and let us go down to breakfast. Then I want to show you my island. The contessa will join us for dinner. We must begin as soon as possible, don’t you think?”

**

Edwina could not guess what her husband had in mind for her but she knew the quiet, unassuming little doctor had something to do with it. She ate little, for she knew they were putting something in her food; and she hated the way it made her feel. She would go for days with nothing but water and a little bread. At first, this practice left her ravenous. Now, she was simply weak.

Paolo did not lock her piano for two days after Dr. Rupert’s last visit and she did not leave the instrument in all that time. Since then, he only unlocked it for an hour or so, once or twice a week. It was locked even at that moment. She’d not played for four days, and it was killing her. Paolo had told her she would not have access to her music again until she ate a good meal. While he now repulsed her because of his bizarre ways, he also puzzled her. Remembering how he had held her, that first week they were at the villa, running his hands over her body until she was dizzy with the erotic sensation, she knew that he must want her. Yet he did not consummate their marriage. And his demands were increasingly bizarre. It was as if he wanted to take her, but because he couldn’t bring himself to do so, he was punishing her. More and more, she wondered if he might be insane.

If only she could get word to Cleome—but there was no way to smuggle a message out. The servants would do nothing to risk Paolo’s rage. She must watch and wait for a chance to get away and she must be ready when it came; so she knew she must eat something soon, if only for the sake of regaining her strength. Just when it seemed she had figured out which dish or drink they were putting the laudanum in—if it was laudanum—they changed it. But soon, she knew, she would have to risk being drugged in order to avoid starvation. Her husband knew it too, and at tea time, he sent her a tempting tray full of imported Swiss chocolate bonbons. She thought these were safe enough, but halfway through the second one, she felt as if she were floating.

She was no better off with Paolo than she’d been with her mother. He meant to break her, to make her submit to whatever game of debauchery he was playing; and her own mother had given him the weapon with which to do it. She couldn’t live without eating and she couldn’t live without her music. Better to go along with whatever he wanted, she thought, at least until she could make her escape. She ate two more chocolates and by the time Paolo came to see her, she was feeling loose and free, as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

Chapter Seventeen

“Ah, I thought the chocolates would tempt you,” Paolo said, on perusing Edwina’s tea tray. “I am delighted you have come to your senses at last.”

“What I have in mind for you this evening you will not find the least bit disagreeable,” he assured her. “We’re entertaining an old friend from home.” He paused, she thought, to enjoy the spark of hope his news gave her. “He is a now my business partner, as I intend to back a venture of his. But he’ll agree only if you also think it a sound investment. So you must let him know you support my decision to finance his enterprise. Can you do that?”

“Who is coming, Paolo?” she asked more pitifully than she meant to. “Someone from my home—from England?” She needed specific details for she was quickly learning his facility with words. He used them to defraud the soul, much as a magician used sleight of hand to fool the eye. “What is his enterprise?”

“Patience, contessa.” She could see that he relished the brittle edge of her desperation. “Does it matter, my dear? All you must do is be pleasant and agreeable. Tell him you support my decision in our arrangement. And perhaps, after dinner, you might play a few melodies for us.”

“What am I to wear?” she asked with a growing dread.

“Why, whatever you please. You have excellent taste in fashion. He is an old friend of a friend of yours, so I imagine he will want some time alone with you to speak about mutual acquaintances.”