Your Scandalous Ways (16 page)

Her cunning and daring had resulted in several remarkable jewelry thefts in the last year or so. Still, James and his associates had deemed her the local government's problem, until the affair of the emeralds. In that case, British agents had become involved as a favor to an important ally. The ally had repaid the favor by signing his name to a crucial treaty.

“Every instinct told me the first attack on Mrs. Bonnard was not simple robbery.” James went on. “But it certainly didn't look like Fazi's work.”

“You incapacitated her best men in Rome,”
Quentin said. “She's making do with what's available. I'll wager anything that pair the other night weren't following orders. There was a cock-up of some kind.”

James considered. “Mrs. Bonnard was wearing a magnificent set of sapphires. They made my hands itch. Apparently Bruno lacked my superhuman powers of self-restraint. He got distracted by the sparkly gems and the beautiful woman. What are the chances, do you reckon, of a brute like that ever getting his hands on a beautiful, highborn woman? Too much temptation for his tiny brain. Then I interrupted before his partner could remind him what he was supposed to be about.”

“I should like to know what exactly they were supposed to be about,” Quentin said. “Our friend Bruno hasn't been terribly enlightening.”

“They were supposed to terrify her,” James said. Now that he had no remaining doubt about Marta Fazi's involvement, he had no difficulty working out the plan. “They were bully boys, sent to scare Mrs. Bonnard into telling where the letters were. If that didn't work, they'd take her away and torture her until she cooperated.”

His stomach knotted and his head pounded. He stood up. “The moment I stepped into the gondola last week, I knew I was stepping into
un mare di merda
. I'd better get back to Venice.”

Quentin rose, too. “I'd better make sure Goetz learns there's a dangerous fugitive on the loose in Venice. At this point, it doesn't matter who finds Fazi, so long as she's found and locked up. The last
thing we want is for Mrs. Bonnard to come to harm. Her death would be—”

“Deuced inconvenient,” James said. “Yes, I know.”

 

It seemed to take forever to get back to Venice. The whole while James fretted, even though common sense told him Marta Fazi was unlikely to risk an attack in broad day, and even though he'd taken precautions. Before leaving for San Lazzaro, he'd sent a message to Lurenze, suggesting he play guard dog again. And to make sure Lurenze did nothing else but guard, James had sent a message to Giulietta as well.

Both would have heard about the burglar nuns soon enough. They probably would have hastened to the Palazzo Neroni in any event. But James wanted to make sure they stayed with Bonnard until he could take over. Fazi would never attack while the lady had important guests, especially royalty. Even the most lax and corrupt government would marshal all its forces and hunt down anyone who troubled important visitors.

Even so, he was angry and impatient all the way back, and short with Zeggio and Sedgewick, who only irritated him further by exchanging that look, again and again.

Not until they came up the canal, and he saw the two gondolas moored outside the Palazzo Neroni, did James begin to relax a very little.

Yet he remained uneasy while he dressed, and gave too many unintelligible orders regarding dinner. When the servants told him that Mrs. Bon
nard's gondola was coming across the canal, he raced down the stairs to the
andron
. Her feet had scarcely touched the
terrazzo
floor when he pulled her into his arms and kissed her, fiercely and long, until they were both breathless.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, to let her draw breath. “Gad, I thought those accursed monks would never let me leave,” he said.

She looked up at him in that way she'd done before, with the ghost full in her exotic green eyes, so that all he saw was a girl, a beautiful girl, gazing at him adoringly.

It was what he'd always wanted—for one girl to look at him so, with all her heart in her eyes—but he'd imagined it so differently. He'd pictured an innocent girl with an honest, caring heart, who knew nothing of life's darker side, who'd saved herself for him and who'd be true, who'd never deceive him.

“Wicked monks,” she said. “Did they make you study Armenian against your will? Byron finally admitted it was beyond him.”

“The curst fellow was there at last—the monk who had the key to the library,” he lied. He saw the irony at once: He, who did little but deceive, insisting upon purity and truth in a woman. “But there were other visitors today, and what must he do but take the lot of us on a tour, and show us every last volume in the place. Then the visitors must ask idiotish questions, which he answered soberly, too patiently, and at interminable length.”

She reached up and brought her soft palm to his cheek. “Poor man. Such an ordeal you've endured.”

He turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. He inhaled the scent of her skin, mingled with the teasing hint of jasmine.

“And all for naught,” he said. “I heard not one word in fifty. My mind was in Venice, at the Palazzo Neroni, where a troublesome girl was probably sleeping—and I spent far too much time wondering if I was in her dreams.”

Her hand slid away, and she looked away. “Have a care, sir. You are beginning to sound romantic.”

“Lack of sleep, probably,” he said. “I'll be better in the morning.”

“Won't that depend on how you spend the night?” she said. The ghost vanished from her green eyes, and mischief twinkled in its place.

“I have a plan for that,” he said.

 

It was meant to be a Roman orgy, he'd explained.

The trouble was, he hadn't any proper Roman furnishings. And so he'd had the servants take out most of the furniture, pile carpets and cushions on the floor of one of the canal-side rooms off the
portego
, and strew flower petals everywhere. It must be a Turkish seraglio instead, he told her. He would be the sultan and she would be all the women of the harem.

The way he looked at her when he said it made Francesca feel as though she were all the women in the world—or at least all the women he could ever want.

She supposed other men looked at her in that way.

But she remembered the way he'd pulled her into his arms as she disembarked from her gondola,
and his kiss, so wild and hot that for a moment she'd believed there was desperation in it.

She'd felt desperate, too. Lurenze and Giulietta had heard about the burglarious nuns, and they'd been waiting for her when she finally woke in the afternoon. She'd had the devil's own time, first trying to quiet their anxieties and later, trying to carry on a rational conversation. All the while, all she'd wanted was to be on the other side of the canal. In this man's arms.

Only pride had kept her from flying from the house in her dressing gown. Pride demanded she wear a gown to make his mouth water. It was crimson, a perfect color for a harlot, and cut low, front and back. A corner of her tattoo, her mark of sin, was just visible above the back of the gown.

She knew that he, being a man, couldn't feel as desperate as she, being a fool, did. The wild heat she felt was merely lust, which she'd done her utmost to arouse. What he expressed was the intense passion usual at the start of an affair.

While they dined, she tried not to let herself build castles in the air. It was hard not to, when he treated her so tenderly and kindly.

Reclining as his Roman ancestors must have done, he fed her tidbits of this and that, olives and bread and delicately prepared shellfish, fruits, and cheeses.

After they'd eaten, she lay with her head upon some cushions while he lay on his side, leaning on his elbow, the two of them facing each other, in a strange sort of intimacy, like…friends, while they…talked.

He described the monastery and told her how the monks had made a shrine of the room in which Byron had studied.

“Shall you study there, too?” she said.

He blinked. “I?”

“Did you not come to study Armenian with the monks?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said. “But Armenian is impossible. No wonder Byron gave it up. I'd rather study you.”

“Not too closely,” she said. “And never in bright sunlight. No woman can withstand that kind of scrutiny.”

“What, do you think the noonday sun will shatter my illusions? Do you think I have any, foolish girl?”

She was so foolish. When he smiled at her in that way, as though he were truly fond of her, and she looked into his deeply blue eyes, she forgot everything she'd learned in the last five years. All her illusions and delusions came back.

“The sun in England is kinder to women,” she said. “There we needn't try to stand up bravely to its glare, since it so rarely glares.”

“‘That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers/Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers,'” he quoted Byron.

“I miss it sometimes, though, the farthing candlelight,” she said.

“Enough to wish to go back?”

She felt a stab, sudden and surprising, of loss. She had not felt it in a long time.

Perhaps that was what loosened her tongue. Or maybe it was the way he watched her, the way he
listened so intently, truly paying attention, as men so rarely did. Even with her, their attention was not, really, on what she said but how she said it and how she looked saying it.

She knew this about men. She used the knowledge to manipulate them. She was finding it impossible to manipulate him.

She said, “I do wish, sometimes, to go…home. I know it's silly. Upon the Continent, I'm merely a divorcée. In many places that's respectable enough. I'm invited nearly everywhere, except where English society gathers. I ought to be happy, not needing to abide by their tedious and endless rules or to bear their special brand of hypocrisy.”

“All the same, you're a foreigner here,” he said. “It's natural, from time to time, to miss the world in which you grew up.”

Of course he understood, and it had nothing to do with their being soulmates, she told herself. There was no such thing between men and women. She'd learned that the hard way. He understood her feelings because he was a wanderer, too. Early on he'd told her he'd spent little time in England.

“I miss the voices,” she said. “I miss the sound of my own language in all its accents, high and low. And I do miss London Society, the Season. I was good at that, you know. I was a good hostess. I did everything I ought to do. I was a good wife, truly. I loved my husband. I wanted to be the best wife in the world. I thought it was part of the bargain, that we would be as good to each other as we could. I thought, if one loved somebody, and married that somebody, it was forever, exactly as the vows say.”

Her chest heaved and the tears started. She brushed them away and said, “Curse you, Cordier. What is it about you that makes me weepy? How could you let me drone on about my misbegotten marriage? What wine was that, to make me so maudlin?”

He reached out and lightly stroked her cheek with his long fingers. “Maudlin or angry?” he said. “Women weep oftentimes because they're angry. Unlike men, they're discouraged from expressing strong feeling physically. Throwing someone in a canal, for instance, is a good way of dealing with a lot of annoying emotion churning inside.”

She laughed, and the shocking pain subsided, as though it had never been. He drew his hand away, though, and she wished he hadn't.

“It's true,” she said. “Women are trained to smile and be brave—or to relieve our feelings with words.”

“You could write a novel, a thinly disguised
roman à clef,
like Caroline Lamb's
Glenarvon,
” he said. “Only think how wonderfully she savaged her beloved Byron.”

Francesca shook her head. She raised herself up, took up her wine glass, and sipped. She looked into it as though it would tell her what to do, what to say, how far to trust.

“I have my own way,” she said after a moment. “More direct. I write to Elphick, at least once a week.”

Cordier's dark eyebrows rose. “So often?”

“Oh, yes. I'm quite faithful—in my correspondence.”

“You write to rail at him, after all this time?”

She laughed at his baffled expression. “Certainly not. Then he'd believe I was unhappy and suffering. Instead, I let him know how delightful my life is. I tell him who calls on me, and what we talk about, and who invites me where, and who has commissioned a portrait of me from which famous artist, and who has bought me this and that and what it's worth. My letters are filled with great names—painters and poets and playwrights and such. But most important, they're filled with the names of Continental royalty and nobility—precisely the kinds of people he likes to hobnob with. I know he grinds his teeth when he reads such things, and it is a pleasant revenge.”

Silence.

She drank more, bolstering her courage. “I think it serves him well. He'd turned every friend I had against me. My father had bolted. I had no one to take care of me. Naturally Elphick expected me to sink quickly into the gutter.”

“Instead you're a queen.”

“A queen of whores, but upon the Continent that is almost as good as being a real queen,” she said. “Did you know that in some courts, there was an official position, the King's Mistress? It was so in France, and is still so in Gilenia, I'm told.”

His expression changed, turning stony in an instant. He sat up, his face hard. “Were you aiming for that position with Lurenze? Have I thrown your careful plans into disarray?”

“I do not aim to belong to any man,” she said,
“king or not.” She made herself laugh. “Compose yourself, sir, or I shall imagine you're jealous.”