Valour and Vanity (34 page)

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Standing with the nuns
at their station under the gallery down the street, Jane adjusted the veil of her wimple to try to cover more of her face. The white cloth of the nun’s habit covering her brow and the sides of her face did nothing to hide her nose. How could anyone fail to recognise her in this? Signor Zancani’s ensemble had been more concealing, and even though this suited their purposes today better than dressing as a man would have, Jane kept wishing for the wart or glasses. The bulk of her costume got in her way, and with each movement she felt every lump and twist of the rope she had hidden within it.

Sister Aquinata elbowed Jane, while pretending to be paying attention to the girls they were professedly taking for an excursion. “A real nun does not play with her habit quite so much.”

Dropping her hand, Jane blushed—which real nuns probably also did not do, or at least not to the extent that she did. The rain had lightened to a soft mist, but the clouds showed no signs of clearing. The driest path, however, was under the long galleries along the sides of the streets. They walked their charges under the gallery opposite the swindlers’ palazzo. Signor Zancani had set up his booth there, and they planned to stop and watch the puppet show so that they were in place to provide some confusion when Vincent exited the building.

Other passers-by strolled through the streets, taking advantage of the temporary break in the rain to go about their errands. Jane watched the flow of foot traffic until she spotted the French officer. It was hard not to stare at Vincent, who she recognised only because she had helped him dress. The uniform had been cut to make him appear heavier than he was so that he could carry in the faux
Verres
for the swap. Signor Zancani had taught him to alter his walk to a more military bearing. With the gold trim on his uniform and the sword hanging by his side, her husband had quite the military swagger. Until the puppet player had forced her husband to walk with his chest out, Jane had not realized how much of the distinctiveness of Vincent’s stride was because he led with his brow, his chin tucked into his collar, as though his mind were leading him forward.

Now Vincent’s chin was held up.

Or, rather, not
his
chin, but the face of
Général de Brigade
Germain, which Vincent wore over his own features. The whiskers and hair colour had been altered by Signor Zancani so that Vincent had bushy white side whiskers and hair running to grey. Glamour altered the line of his jaw to give him jowls, and he had the bulbous nose of a man who drank to excess.

Sister Aquinata elbowed her again, and Jane dragged her gaze from her husband. A real nun would not stare at a man with so much longing. She sent up a prayer that Vincent would be safe. They were fast approaching the part of the plan that frightened her the most, when he went inside the palazzo.

The puppets. She must appear to be watching the puppets and making sure the girls were all staying with the group. Sister Aquinata stood on the other side of their small cluster. At the end of this show, Sister Maria Agnes and the Abbess would take their place watching over the group. Jane stepped to the side until she stood upon the stone they had marked. From there, she was able to see the mirror that Signor Nenci had lent them. It hung on the puppet booth as though it were trimming, but angled in such a way so that it reflected the palazzo. She could see Vincent step up to the door and knock.

More significantly, she could hear. Jane had run a slender thread from the second-floor room down to the street to carry the sound from the
bouclé torsadée
that had remained anchored behind the curtain in the parlour at the palazzo. A casual passer-by who happened to stroll through the thread would catch at most a snippet of conversation from the palazzo but would be past too quickly to note it. If one stood in exactly the right spot, however, pretending to watch a puppet show, one could align an ear with the thread and listen.

Someone was in the parlour, because she could hear the quiet hiss of paper turning and the clink of glass on marble. Was that the sound of the
Verre
being set out on the sideboard or simply a glass of brandy? No other clues came to identify which man, or men, were there, and it gave her nothing of the sound that happened elsewhere in the house. But she could see Vincent present his card—prepared by Sister Franceschina—and be admitted into the house.

A few moments later, the parlour door opened.

“Pardon me, sir, but
Général de Brigade
Germain is here to see you.”

“Are you ready?” Spada. The glass clinked against marble.

“No, but I can fake it.” Bastone. Papers rattled as he shuffled them. For a moment he appeared in the window as he crossed the parlour to the strong room.

“Then show him in.”

The door closed.

Metal clicked. A lock? Another door opened with a faint hiss of cloth brushing cloth. Muffled, Bastone said, “Sometimes I wonder if the
Verre
never worked.”

“Perhaps they were swindling us, you mean?”

“Exactly.” His voice remained indistinct, as though he were in another room. “If Napoleon hadn’t backed this, I would have voted for getting out long ago.”

Spada snorted. “As would I, but … I saw the
Verres
work and used one myself, when the Vincents were out. They work.”

“That is good, because they are not particularly attractive.” Bastone’s voice grew in volume as he walked out of what Jane assumed was the strong room.

The door opened again. A man with a gruff voice spoke Italian with a thick French accent, “Good afternoon,
messieurs
.”

“General Germain.” Cloth rustled as Spada stood. “Please be welcome. How was your journey?”

“It was good,
merci.
” Footsteps sounded, and then her husband appeared in the window, as they had agreed. Jane could scarcely breathe, watching him. He would try to make them converse near the window in order to remain visible from the street. Vincent held two fingers in front of his chest to indicate that only two of the band of swindlers were in the room with him. “The weather is frightful today, is it not?”

Jane fidgeted with her rosary, considering. If there were only two men in the room, that meant that the others could be anywhere. It might not be safe yet to send the signal to Lord Byron to effect his subterraqueous entrance.

Spada said, “Alas, Venice in the winter is often like this.”

Vincent raised a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Now, where are these
Verres Obscurcis
that I ’ave ’eard so much about? Will you show them to me?”

Spada glided across the room to stand by him. “Of course, but let us first offer you something to drink. You must be parched from your journey.”

“
Non.
Not at all. I would very much like—” He stopped abruptly and pressed the handkerchief to his brow again. “Will you be so good as to show me the
Verres
?”

“Are you quite all right?”

“Is no matter. Malaria left me—how you say—palsy sometimes.” His image in the mirror was too small to make out the fine details. She could not see his hands shaking, but that must be what was happening. Jane’s heart sped as if she were the one working the glamour.

“Spada…” Bastone stepped into view, with concern in his voice.

Vincent swayed. Spada took a step back in alarm as her husband’s glamour ruptured into an oily spectrum and he crumpled to the ground.

Through the
bouclé torsadée,
Jane could hear Vincent’s heels drumming against the floor and the sound that had given her nightmares: the short grunts of breath being forced from his body in convulsions.

Twenty-three

A Complicated Tapestry

She had known Vincent would convulse. The harsh edge of his breath bore into her head through the
bouclé torsadée
. Jane could not listen to that sound. Jerking her head out of the skein, she turned to Sister Aquinata. “Vincent is having a seizure.”

The nun’s mouth dropped open in horror. On the stage, the puppets stopped, Pulcinella turning as if in shock. Her voice had been louder than she intended, and all of the girls had clearly heard her. She had not meant to alarm them, but there was no time to worry about that.

Jane turned to the oldest of them. “Lucia, run to the river and tell Lord Byron to proceed, exactly as we have planned. Make sure you tell him to proceed
exactly
as we have planned.”

Eyes wide, the girl nodded and ran down the street, pigtails streaming behind her.

Signor Zancani appeared from behind the booth, still pulling a puppet off his hand. Jane spared him a glance and said, “Nothing changes.”

“What do you mean? If he is ill, everything changes.”

“I am going after him. I will need a distraction to get us out, and we already have one planned. Use it.” Without waiting for his inevitable protest, Jane ran across the street.

Behind her, she heard Sister Aquinata send another girl to tell the Abbess what was happening. Then the puppet play began again. Jane put them out of her mind. Her first objective—her only objective—was to get to Vincent and hope she was quick enough.

At the door, Jane sent up a prayer and shoved. It opened easily. Vincent’s calling card fell out of the latch, where he had blocked the lock. Lifting the robes of her habit, Jane ran up the stairs, two at a time.

Coppa sat in front of the water entrance with a book, apparently guarding it. He looked up with alarm as she bolted up the stairs. “Hey!”

Jane ignored him, gaining the top of the stairs before he started up them. His footsteps chased her to the parlour. She burst into the room. Her feet echoed on the marble floor. The rug had been removed from the room, so Vincent would have landed on the cold stone floor. The
Verres
had been removed from the room, but for the moment Jane did not care about them.

Spada spun around. His brow furrowed in confusion, seeing only the robes of her habit for the moment. Jane charged to where Vincent lay on the floor, drenched with sweat.

His neck was pulled back in a tight arc, and tremors shook his body. Even though she had expected this sight, Jane stopped breathing in distress. She pushed past Spada and knelt at Vincent’s side. “He must be cooled.”

The confusion cleared from Spada’s face. “Lady Vincent.”

From the door, Coppa charged through. “Sorry. She slipped past me.”

“I can see that.” Spada leaned on his cane and limped forward.

Bastone stepped out of the wall as Jane grabbed a fold of glamour and wove it into a bubble of cool in an effort to reduce Vincent’s temperature. She glared at Bastone, who halted by the strong room. “Help me. You know what is happening here. I need help with the cold weaves.”

“I—That’s really not my area.” He took a step back, as though Vincent’s condition were contagious.

Denaro stuck his head into the parlour. “What’s going on?”

“The Vincents were attempting to steal our
Verres
. I think that settles the question of whether they work.” Spada tapped his cane upon the floor. “Denaro, check the other entrances. I suspect that there will be another attempt to come inside. Likely the service entrance. That is how you came in before, is it not, Lady Vincent?”

“I need help.” She loosened Vincent’s cravat and pulled it free to help him breathe. If she thought overmuch about what was happening, she would lose her bearings. “Please. Overheating could kill him.”

Vincent’s colour was very high, but mottled red and white. Little bubbles of spit popped at the corners of his mouth. She kept her gaze fixed on her husband and let the sound of the swindlers’ conversation wash over her.

“She’s right. If he hasn’t fried himself already,” Bastone said.

She pulled another fold from the ether and laid it under the initial strand of cold. “Will you please, for the love of God, send for a surgeon.”

“Why?” Spada paced around her, cane tapping against the floor. “Is there a benefit to helping you?”

Jane lifted her head and let all the loathing she felt for this man fill her voice. “If you want to know how the
Verre
work, then help me keep him alive, because if he dies, I swear to God that I will hunt you down myself and kill you.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Brave words from a woman trapped in a room alone with four men who have no reason to let her live.”

“Of course you have a reason. Profit.” Jane turned her head back to Vincent, shaking with rage. They would let him die. After all that she knew about Spada, she had still put some faith in his essential humanity, that he would not willingly kill someone. It had been a mistake. “If he lives, I will teach you to work the
Verres
.”

“Not merely if we help you? But it is hardly our fault that he is in such a state.”

“It is completely your fault.” Jane pulled a third fold out and slid it beneath the others. Spreading it between her hands, Jane reached for Vincent’s forehead and began to stretch the glamour over him.

“Nonsense. I did not force you to do anything. At every step of the way, you had a choice. You chose to let me pay for your ransom. You chose to let me take you in. You chose to let me help pick a glassmaker.” Spada’s voice was bewitching and reasonable. “You chose to send your husband here, knowing that he was over-taxed. His collapse last week was not enough?”

Jane bit her lip, knowing that he was right. She was surprised not that he had an informant in their group but that he admitted it so readily. She kept her hands sliding over her husband’s form, under the layers of cooling threads atop him. As she passed down his chest, he convulsed and made a strangled grunt that alarmed her. She almost pulled her hands back, but kept laying the folds. The chill began to burn into her fingers as she worked. “And you are choosing to let him die. If you want working
Verres,
I would suggest that you make a different choice.”

“Do you swear with the same fervour that you swore to kill me that you will show Bastone how to make a working sphere?”