Venice in the Moonlight (4 page)

“Do you have any other brilliant ideas?” Mr. Brown asked the driver in a gruff voice.

The driver rubbed the back of his neck and then turned his head to spit before replying. “Padua is up the road a bit. I’ll take a horse and get help.”

Marietta frowned at the late afternoon sun. “How long will that take, Signore? It’ll be dark soon.”

Before the driver could answer, a carriage moving at full speed rounded a bend in the road. The group hurried out of the way, but instead of passing, the coachman reined in the pair of massive Cleveland Bays pulling the red- and gold-trimmed carriage.

Two men, one about Marietta’s age and the other old enough to be her grandfather, hopped out. The younger man was tall with a trim build and dressed in a stylish light gray coat and burgundy brocade waistcoat. He wore odd spectacles with dark lens both in front and on the sides of his eyes and carried a walking stick in his hand. If it weren’t for how confidently he strode toward them, Marietta would have thought him blind. The other man was a bit shorter and, though obviously of an advanced age, moved easily. As the strangers approached, the younger man listened intently while his white-haired companion whispered in his ear.

“Buon giorno.” The younger one greeted Marietta and the other travelers with a formal bow. “I am Signor Nico Foscari and this is Signor Raul Orlando. Was anyone hurt in the mishap?”

Marietta shook her head. “No, we are all well.” For the benefit of the Browns, she repeated Foscari’s greeting in French and then introduced her group.

“The only injuries were to our clothes,” Mr. Brown said with a wave at his ruined stockings. He swiped at his nose with a mud-covered finger and left a long brown streak behind.

Mrs. Brown rolled her eyes. Exasperation seemed to be her only response to Mr. Brown’s actions.

“I assume you were headed to Padua?” Nico asked in French.

Mr. Brown nodded. “Only for the night and then on to Venice. The driver’s going to take a horse and bring back help.”

“It’s still quite a distance to Padua.” Nico paused to consider the situation. “My family’s villa is not far. You are welcome to rest there until your coach is fixed.”

Marietta exchanged a doubtful glance with Zeta. It was a generous offer, but she wasn’t sure they should impose on a stranger. The Browns, however, had no such dilemma.

“I tell you, you Italians are the nicest people.” Mr. Brown clapped a dirty hand on Nico’s shoulder. “You’re making it hard to return to chilly England. Say, you don’t have a sister, do you?”

Nico’s brows creased at the unexpected question. “
Scusimi
?”

Marietta hid a smile behind her hand. Mr. Brown was relentless in his quest.

nable to all fit in the Foscari’s carriage, it was decided that Nico and Raul would take the women to the villa, and then the carriage would return for Mr. Brown and George. After their trunks were transferred, the women took their places on one bench, while Nico and Raul settled on the other.

In the close confines of the carriage, Marietta peeked over her fan at Nico who sat opposite her. Though his clothes suggested a noble status, he didn’t wear a wig. Instead, his coal-colored hair fell well below his shoulders in waves without the benefit of a ribbon or bag to hold it in place. It gave him a wild, reckless look, which his odd spectacles intensified. However, she found his face pleasing with high cheek bones and a full mouth that smiled easily as he made small talk with Mrs. Brown.

“I’m so sorry we are making such a mess of your carriage, Mr. Foscari. We must look dreadful.” Mrs. Brown patted her hair in an attempt to tidy it.

Nico held up a hand. “Don’t worry. Soon you will be able to wash up. I’m glad we happened upon you. The rest of my family has already departed for the winter. I stayed behind with a few servants to close up the villa, but we should be able to make you comfortable.”

“Do you live in Venice then?” Mrs. Brown asked.

“Most of the time, yes. I find city life more—stimulating.”

The last word was innocent enough, but the way he said it, caressing each syllable, shot shivers up Marietta’s spine. Neither Mrs. Brown nor Zeta showed any reaction, but a slight frown passed over Raul’s lips. If only their host would take off his dark glasses. It was much easier to measure the worth of a man when you could see where he chose to look.

The stretch of road to the villa bounced the carriage at every rain-carved rut, jostling the occupants against each other. Marietta tried to brace herself against the bench to avoid touching Nico, but it did no good. After one particularly hard bump that launched her several inches in the air, her legs knocked his. Her apology froze in her throat when he pressed back with his knees and raised an eyebrow over his dark glasses. Marietta scooted back as far as she could. Perhaps she didn’t need to see his eyes to measure this one.

When they turned into the private road to the Foscari estate, Marietta nudged Zeta. Her friend leaned forward and her eyes widened. A mansion five times the size of the Gatti family villa stood at the end of the long drive. Built of a light-colored stone, the structure boasted dozens of Greek columns and archways. Marble lions flanked the two dozen steps that lead to a wrought iron double door.

Marietta groaned when she realized just who Nico Foscari was. The Foscari name belonged to one of the city’s oldest ruling families, and here she was, mud-splattered and disheveled. If her mother-in-law could see her now, she’d be choking with laughter at the latest proof that Marietta didn’t belong in the world of nobility. She brushed a hand over the dried mud on her skirt and wished she could snap her fingers and disappear into thin air, as she once saw a carnival magician do.

Her feelings of inadequacy grew when the front door opened to reveal a large foyer adorned with life-size statues and frescoes on every wall. Plush rugs in jewel-toned colors covered a white marble floor. Several intricately carved wooden doors opened off the long hallway and at the end, a wide staircase curved up to the second floor. Marietta dug her fingernails into her palm to keep from gasping at all the wealth.

After a plump, gray-haired woman in an apron greeted them, she whispered in Nico’s ear. At the same moment that he and Raul turned toward the nearest room, its door flung open. A middle-aged man dressed in working clothes marched out and struck a wide stance with arms akimbo.

“Which one of you is Foscari?” he asked.

“Signor Ragno is here to see you, Signore.” The housekeeper pressed her lips together to maintain her composed expression.

Nico nodded at the man. “I am Signor Foscari. How may I help you?”

“This is no social call,” Signor Ragno said with a sneer that distorted his weathered face. He pointed a gnarled finger at Nico. “You ruined my youngest daughter!”

“I’m sorry. You have me at a loss. What was her name?” Nico replied in the same tone one might use to inquire about the weather.

Ragno clenched his hands into fists. “You know very well her name—Gemma.”

“Ah, yes, Gemma, the pretty little thing from the village inn.” Nico chuckled. “I’m afraid your daughter was ruined long before I met her.”

“You take that back, you arrogant cur!” Ragno lunged at Nico with outstretched arms.

Mrs. Brown let out a high-pitched shriek while Raul threw himself between the men to protect Nico, who hadn’t even flinched.

“Beatrice.” Raul hissed the housekeeper’s name. His breath came in puffs as he held back the angry father. “Please take the ladies upstairs and have someone bring them their trunks.”

The housekeeper gave Nico a withering stare that only a beloved servant could get away with and motioned for the women to follow her.

“Yes, of course, please go with Beatrice.” Nico smiled at them, as if nothing was amiss. “I’m sure you are looking forward to getting out of your frocks.”

Mrs. Brown’s hands flew to her mouth. With her eyes locked on Nico, she stepped hesitantly back toward the front door and then took two more rapid steps before she bumped into Zeta.

The young woman wrapped an arm around the older woman’s waist. “Come now, Signora. Let’s go upstairs.”

Half dragging Mrs. Brown, the women followed a sullen Beatrice to an upstairs bedroom. The housekeeper found three old dressing gowns and then hurried off to clean their soiled clothes.

“Now what do we do?” Mrs. Brown asked in a low voice.

Marietta looked up from scrubbing a spot of dirt on her hand and glanced around the room, unsure of why Mrs. Brown felt the need for whispering. “I think once we are presentable, we should join our hosts. Maybe we can get a decent meal out of this predicament.”

The English woman clutched the neckline of her dressing gown closed with both hands. “But doesn’t Mr. Foscari worry you? What do you think he did to that poor girl?”

Marietta had a good idea, but if Mrs. Brown couldn’t figure it out, she wasn’t about to educate her. “I don’t know, but I’m sure he will be a perfect gentleman while we’re here.”

Unconvinced, Mrs. Brown moved to the far window to hold vigil for her missing men.

“The poor thing seems lost without her family,” Zeta said into Marietta’s ear.

Marietta nodded but before she could try to soothe Mrs. Brown’s nerves, a knock on the door announced the arrival of their trunks.

After the women dressed, they went downstairs. The sound of voices led them to the salon.

“Ah, there you are, Signoras. Unfortunately, our other guest, Signor Ragno, has already left,” Nico said with a smirk. “I think the sudden weight in his coin purse had something to do with it.”

“Nico . . .” Raul admonished the younger man without raising his voice.

Nico laughed at the rebuke. “Here now, I’m being a terrible host. Please sit. Raul, get them some wine. The cook is preparing a meal for us. We will eat as soon as your gentlemen arrive.”

Mrs. Brown and Zeta settled on the nearest sofa, but Marietta chose to circle the room to admire the artwork. The fourth painting she came to showed a nighttime view of Venice. A couple embraced on a bridge over a canal as a full moon bathed them in romantic light. When she bent closer to read the artist’s signature, she inhaled sharply.

“Is something wrong?” Nico asked. He joined her in front of the painting and stood too close for Marietta’s comfort.

“No, no . . . I’m familiar with this artist. Do you know when it was painted?”

Nico’s brow furrowed. “Raul?”

“That is
Lovers in the Moonlight
by Bernardo Orsini. It was commissioned late last year,” the older man replied from across the room.

“Do you like it?” Nico asked.

Marietta bit her lip to control the flood of emotions welling inside her. She had loved to watch her father paint when she was a child. He had always amazed her with how quickly he could turn a blank canvas into a lifelike picture, and sometimes he had even let her paint a small section.

After a moment she answered, “Very much so. I love all his work, but I didn’t know he was still painting.”

When Beatrice appeared at the door to announce the arrival of the carriage, Nico downed the remainder of his wine. “Excuse me while I see that the men are taken care of promptly. Raul?”

After their hosts left, Marietta paced the room.

“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Brown finally asked.

Marietta pointed at the Orsini painting. “My father painted that.”

“Before your mother died?” Zeta asked.

Marietta shook her head. “No. Raul said it was painted last year.”

Mrs. Brown crossed the room to peer at the painting. “I don’t know much about Italian art, but it’s charming. Is he a famous painter here?”

“Several years ago, my father’s art was very much in demand. Then my mother died, and he stopped painting. We fell on hard times, and he forced me into a marriage I did not want.”

“Oh, how dreadful.” Mrs. Brown made a tsking noise in sympathy. “But why are you upset? Aren’t you proud his painting hangs in such a grand villa?”

Marietta was proud but also angry. When she had realized what kind of man Dario was, she had begged her father to paint again. Even though he hadn’t created anything in years, patrons still knocked on their door. If only he would have taken up his brush, all their problems would have been solved. But he had refused with a dejected shake of his head and then taken to his bed for days at a time.

“Don’t you see?” Marietta continued, her voice rising. “If he was selling paintings, I could have come home. I wouldn’t have had to live all these years with that horrid family. Why didn’t he send for me?”

“Maybe he thought you were happy?” Mrs. Brown said meekly.

Before Marietta could reply, Beatrice once again appeared in the doorway. “Signor Foscari requests your presence in the dining room. Come with me, please.”

Marietta traced her father’s mark in the corner of the painting with the tip of her finger. Why didn’t he write? Did he hate her? After all the curses she had thrown at him and Dario, did her father really think she was happy with the Gattis? With a final look at her father’s creation, Marietta reluctantly followed the others from the room.