Valour and Vanity (13 page)

Vincent made the introductions, since Lord Byron seemed disinclined to do so. Jane offered Mr. Hobhouse a curtsy.

“Oh—introductions. So tiresome.” Byron tilted his head back and called to the young woman. “Marianna, are you not going to kiss me, my sweet?”

“You did not kiss
me
.” She continued to watch the water, fanning herself peevishly.

He shrugged and scratched the monkey again. “How are you finding Venice?”

Jane sank on to the nearest sofa, shooing a cat away to make space for Vincent. “To be honest, we are spending most of our time in Murano, but what I have seen of Venice is lovely.”

“The view of the Rialto—of the piazza—and the chant of Tasso are to me worth all the cities on earth.” He paused, considering. “Save Rome and Athens. Perhaps. And the women. God help me, but I love the Italian women.”

Mr. Hobhouse settled in a chair across from them. “And how was your journey in?”

Vincent smirked. “Unpleasant, to be honest. We were set upon by corsairs.”

Various exclamations resulted from that statement, ranging from a simple “Good Lord” to “Inconceivable,” and finishing with Lord Byron’s “Stap my vitals!” Byron had sat up with the monkey clinging to his collar. Face alight with interest, the poet leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and hands steepled in front of him. “Corsairs, you say. I thought you were coming from Trieste.”

“We did. Mind you, your directions on where to find the glamural were not as clear as they could have been.”

“What care I for that? Tell me of the corsairs.”

Vincent’s face coloured and he rubbed the back of his head. “To tell the truth, I took a blow to the head and remember little of the events. Jane saw them, though.”

“Unlucky that.” Lord Byron turned his burning interest to her. “Well, Lady Vincent, you shall have to be my muse, then.”

She darted a glance to Vincent. “I am not certain I am equal to the task.” Her husband was glaring at Lord Byron, but broke off when she laid a hand on his knee. Jane affected a manner lighter than she felt. “They were much like the corsairs that appear in
Punch’
s illustrations. Long moustaches, winding turbans, and striped trousers like a commedia player’s.”

Vincent put his hand on hers and squeezed. “Show him.”

She bit the inside of her lip, but nodded. Jane had not wished to remind him of his difficulties with glamour by being free with it. It was, however, well suited to the task. With quick strokes, Jane drew the captain of the corsairs in front of her. It was not a fully realized rendering,—more like the sketch that a dressmaker would create to display an idea for a new gown. She had him brandish his curved scimitar, and gave an added flourish by having his long moustaches blow in the breeze.

Byron frowned as he stared at it. “Is this accurate, Vincent?”

Her husband nodded. “While much of my memory was victim to the attack, I had the opportunity of some minutes to stare at the captain. Jane’s rendering is precise in its detail.”

“Off Trieste, you say? What happened in the attack?” Lord Byron turned his attention back to Jane.

“I did not see any of the attack itself, as I was below deck with the rest of the passengers. They brought us above deck to ransom us later, but the fighting was done by then. They put us in the ship’s boat and then sent us back to land.”

“Vincent? Have you nothing for me?”

He shook his head and spread his hands. “I remember sending Jane below. Then she woke me after the attack. Even that is full of dark holes in my memory.”

“He is the only passenger who stayed above.”

“I beg your pardon, madam.”
Il dottore
had abandoned his work with the lock and now stood behind the sofa. “Not pirates. You think you were attacked by pirates, but you were not.”

“I assure you, we were.”

The odd little man shook his head and tapped the fez upon his head. “Corsairs, excellent haberdashery choices, fez beneath the turban, but not for this captain of yours. Also, corsairs in the Gulf of Venice? And dressed like that? Not unless they were on their way to the theatre. To perform, I mean.” He looked suddenly as if he had said too much, made an awkward gesture with his hands and spun on his heel to return to the business of the lock.

Lord Byron nodded. “I must agree. When I wrote
The Corsair,
it was not without some research. I would not say that I spent time as a—enough. Suffice to say that what you describe is not a corsair attack. To ransom you, they would have taken you to a secure location and then sent a message. How should they have been assured of the funds if they let you go?”

Jane’s mouth worked without finding words. She swallowed, trying to make sense of what he said. “But we
were
attacked.”

“Were you?” called the Doctor, looking over once again. “A blow to the head? To the
back
of the head?” Vincent’s face paled, and his hand rose to his scalp. He had been attacked from behind.

Eight

A Ring of Intrigue

Jane looked from
il dottore
to Vincent, trying to grasp this new possibility. “Are you suggesting that the blow was on the back of his head because one of the crew struck him?”

“Was anyone else injured?”

She had not thought of it at the time, but there was a curious absence of blood in her memory of the deck. “Signor Sanuto—he was hurt when the pirates came down to where the passengers were. In fact, he was hurt defending me.”

Vincent started. “Defending you? Jane—you did not tell me they had threatened you.”

“I—you were ill and the danger was past, so I did not wish to worry you.” She blushed. “There is little enough to tell.”

“And yet I would very much like to hear it.” His expression confounded Jane. It was a mixture of hurt and anger, yet she did not think the anger was directed toward her.

Reluctantly, very reluctantly, she related the whole of what took place in the passenger cabin when the pirates had stormed in. Vincent became quite still; then he abruptly stood and walked away from the sofa to stare out the window. His hands were knotted in fists at his side. Lord Byron turned to watch him go, a brief smile colouring his face. He leaned closer to Jane. “He loves you very much, in case you were unaware.”

She coloured at his presumption, to comment thus on their marriage. “I—yes, thank you.”

“While he collects himself … It seems to me that if the pirate attack was indeed not real, then Signor Sanuto must know that.”

“But how could he? He was below with me.”

From the window, Vincent said, “Because he paid the ransom.”

Of course, if Lord Byron was correct about how the pirates worked, then Signor Sanuto would have to have been aware. “But perhaps … If we grant that these were not corsairs, might they not be a different sort of pirate? Perhaps the Venetian variety accepts ransoms in this manner?” But even as she said it, Jane could see that the method made no sense.

All previous elation about the
Verres
faded. The group spent some time debating and turning over the possibilities till Jane felt quite ill.

*   *   *

When they departed, Lord
Byron put his gondola at their disposal, with the prompting that his invitation to share his lodgings still stood. The Vincents’ trip back to the palazzo was spent in silence.

When they arrived back at Ca’ Sanuto, the stairs to the upper floor seemed longer than they had before. Jane dreaded the conference they were about to have with their host. Vincent’s brow was pulled down very low, and his shoulders rode hunched within his coat. They found Signor Sanuto in his study with work candles pulled up next to his desk and his leg braced upon an ottoman with pillows piled beneath it. He looked up from a ledger when they entered and smiled. “How was your day?”

He seemed so happy to see them that Jane wondered how they could doubt him.

“We have been busy.” Vincent tucked his chin into his collar and took a seat opposite Signor Sanuto. Jane sank into the chair next to her husband. Her heart raced inside her stays as though she were managing a large fold of glamour. “We spoke with someone today who suggested, with reason, that the pirates who attacked our ship were not corsairs.”

“Not corsairs?” The signore sat back in his chair, face slipping out of the candlelight. “They certainly looked like corsairs.”

“Perhaps too much. Then there is the subject of the ransom…” Vincent’s voice caught. “How did they collect the money?”

“Ah.” Signor Sanuto twirled his quill in his fingers, staring at Vincent for a moment, and then at Jane. She could only watch with aghast fascination as their host’s face struggled with emotion. His jaw clenched, and twice he appeared to draw breath to speak. At last he sighed and sat forward, placing the quill in the inkpot. Lowering his leg, he began to rise and winced. “Sir David, would you be so kind as to shut the door.”

Vincent stood slowly, not taking his eyes off Signor Sanuto. “I will require some explanation.”

He nodded, not looking at either of them. “The door, please.”

Striding across the room, Vincent shut the door firmly and turned to face Signor Sanuto. Their host still sagged in his chair, but the sound seemed to recall him somewhat. Reaching to the side, he pulled open a drawer on his desk and extracted a paper. With his mouth in a thin line, he placed the paper on the table, sliding it toward Vincent. It was his promissory note. “This is why I did not want to accept your funds when you attempted to repay me. I stopped the deposit.”

Jane could find no other meaning. “You knew. Knew that they were not pirates.”

“I did.” He placed another item on the table. A small woman’s ring. Jane’s wedding ring. “And I could think of no way to return this to you without revealing that I knew.”

“And our other property? And those of the other passengers?”

“Some have been restored, where possible. Most…” He held his hands out helplessly. “It is the part of the—the cost that I most regret, because those paying it did not agree to do so. It was … necessary.”

“But why?” Vincent remained by the door, perfectly still. “Why stage a pirate attack? What could demand such elaborate measures?”

Signor Sanuto sighed and sounded old for the first time since they had met him. “There are things you ask me that I cannot answer. Stories that are not mine to tell.”

“We must have some answer, sir.”

He rubbed his brow. “Let me try. Let me try to speak of things that are common knowledge to see if you can draw the picture. Venice was a republic for one thousand years. Until only ten years ago, in fact, when Napoleon intimidated the council into disbanding our country. It should never have happened. Since then, we have been handed to the Hapsburgs as though we were nothing more than chattel. They have been trying to wring every drop of wealth that they can from Venice. They tax us heavily. For instance, the glassmakers cannot bring in the materials that they require for modern techniques. Their work stagnates.”

“This does not account for anything that occurred.”

Nodding, Signor Sanuto straightened the pages of his ledger. “What if … what if you knew of papers aboard a certain ship that could affect the fate of your homeland? What would you do?”

Jane frowned, feeling as though the conversation had taken a familiar turn. “Are you suggesting that you are a spy?”

He gave a dismal smile. “My answer to that would be the same if I were or if I were not.” Leaning forward, he tapped the promissory note with one finger. “Suffice to say that I had good and sufficient reason to decline your offer to repay me, and even more reason to feel guilty for your injury.”

Vincent snorted and rubbed his hair, in the gesture Jane recognised so well as an attempt to order his thoughts.

“It was … it was a surprise that not all of the passengers went below deck. The plan—I should dissemble, but—” He bit his words off with a groan. “I paid the captain to surrender without contest. The running, shouting, and gunfire was all feigned for the passengers. No one was to be hurt.” Grief seemed to add its weight to Signor Sanuto’s age. He rose painfully and limped to where Vincent stood. He held out the promissory note and the ring. “I had not expected such valour.”

Stiffly formal, Vincent took them both, turning the ring over in his hand. “It seems little valour was required.”

Signor Sanuto shook his head. “
You
were prepared to fight. I was prepared to lie.”

The tenor of the conversation was so familiar to Jane. It put her in mind of when Vincent had been working for the Crown and unable to tell her. If Signor Sanuto were being open with them, if he had been engaged in work that he could not discuss, then Vincent, of all people, should understand those difficulties. Her husband’s continued anger must rise from the shock, the injured pride that he had been taken in so completely, compounded by the fact that the blow to his head had nearly taken away his ability to do that which he valued most.

Jane stood slowly and smoothed the folds of her dress. It came to her that it was no wonder Signor Sanuto had been so free and easy with his wife’s wardrobe when they first arrived, since he had been the instrument for losing theirs. “Does your wife know?”

He shook his head, looking deeply penitent. “I beg that you not tell her when she arrives. She would not understand.”

“I did. When I was in her position.”

Vincent’s head came up at that, but their host was focused on Jane and did not see his surprise, nor the understanding that began to soften his features. Signor Sanuto shook his head. “You are a remarkable woman, Lady Vincent. I hope you understand that not all women are so … steady in their thoughts.”

Jane recalled her own mother, whose feverish nerves had been her constant companion. “Truly? None of the women in the cabin were overcome during the attack, save one who might be excused by her youth. If you trust your wife in other matters, then you might consider if you can trust her with this.”

“I wish … I truly wish that I could. It is no comfortable thing to keep secrets from those one holds in regard.”