Your Scandalous Ways (19 page)

That was all he wanted. The rest—jealousy and hurt feelings and betrayed trust—didn't signify. This was work, and he knew better than to let feelings get tangled with work. Let her go to Magny if she wanted. She might go to the devil, for all James cared.

Meanwhile, the sooner he smoothed Goetz's ruffled feathers, the sooner he could get back to work.

“I'm fairly familiar with this house,” James said. “Perhaps the search will go more quickly if I help you.”

 

Since Marta Fazi wasn't in the middle of the melee at the Palazzo Neroni but watching from a small rowboat at a safe distance, it took her far less time than it did her hired ruffians to realize that Plan C wasn't going well.

She did not wait about, hoping it would come out right. She might not be able to read as easily as some people but she had no trouble recognizing a fiasco when she saw one.

It was a good thing she had her hands occupied rowing, else some innocent bystander might have found out—in an acutely painful manner—exactly how disappointed she was.

However, this was Venice, and it was hard to do
bodily injury to others while rowing a boat, trying to find one's way in the middle of the night while keeping clear of the accursed gondolas that cluttered the waterways.

The best Marta could do was relieve her feelings aloud, in her own language, incomprehensible to those who might overhear her as she passed.

“This is what happens when you must work with incompetents,” she raged to the world at large. “It's all well for him, in London, with all his lackeys, to say ‘Oh, Marta, my dear, will you get me some letters, if you please.' Why did he let the great whore take those letters in the first place? Why did he not beat her and make her give them back? Why does he write to her still? Why does he care anything about her? She is too tall. Why does he not buy me a red dress? When was the last time he sent me jewelry? If I want it, I must steal it for myself. Not her. The stupid men give it to her, only because she goes on her back and gives them what most women would give them for free. I hate her and her stupid letters. She thinks she is so clever and every man will do her bidding, the fine lady. Only let me get my hands on her, once, and we'll see. We'll see who is beautiful and who is clever. Oh, yes, let me get my hands on her, only once. Then I will know what to do.”

Yes, indeed, Marta knew what to do with the so-clever English whore. The only question was, how to get her hands on her.

 

Goetz was thorough. His men began on the roof and worked their way down. Though James helped,
he'd not much hope of finding the letters. Francesca would not have appeared so unconcerned at the prospect of a search had she hidden them in the
palazzo
. Whatever else had troubled her each time she or her house had been attacked, she'd not seemed in any anxiety about the letters.

What in blazes had she done with them?

And
blazes
was not the cheeriest turn of speech. Was it possible she'd burned them?

But no, she couldn't be so stupid. Whatever else she was, Francesca Bonnard was not stupid.

Difficult, temperamental, cynical, obstinate, reckless, and very, very naughty, yes. If she had not been all these things and more—intelligent and witty and so fiercely, passionately, alive…and expensive, mustn't forget that—deuced expensive—if she had not been all these things, James would have solved the problem in three days at most.

But she was all those things, and the letters were nowhere in the Palazzo Neroni. He'd stake his life on that. He'd even climbed a ladder and searched the numerous chinks and crooks and crevices of the plaster children and draperies. He'd checked the frames of paintings as well, for hollow places. He told Goetz he was looking for wires or springs for traps.

Late in the day, having found neither insurrectionists nor murderous devices, James went on with the governor to the Ducal Palace and a lengthy interrogation.

He managed to pacify Goetz by claiming to have heard rumors that one Marta Fazi, a criminal
known in the south and in the Papal States, was at large in Venice. Very likely she'd made Mrs. Bonnard her target, James said, because the English lady was (a) a woman and thus vulnerable and (b) the owner of a fine collection of jewelry.

“Fazi is a thief,” James told the governor. “A violent one, like so many in the lawless parts of Italy. No finesse. They make a lot of noise and kill people needlessly. They're vengeful. It would seem this Fazi woman has tried and failed several times. The angrier she gets, the more determined, violent, and reckless.”

“The Papal States are a disgrace,” Goetz said. “Two hundred murders in the last year alone. But here we have the rule of law. We will find this woman, and the rest of the criminals will learn to stay in their own disorderly countries.”

Good luck
, James thought.

 

Having returned to the Ca' Munetti shortly before midnight, James slept well into the following day.

Sleeping—no matter what the circumstances—was a skill he'd learned long ago. In the Abbaye prison, their tormentors had, among other amusements, kept him and his fellows awake for days on end, until they were hallucinating. James had taught himself to sleep with his eyes open. He could make himself sleep anywhere, any time, and wake up quickly.

He was deeply angry, deeply unhappy—and that was about as far as he cared to examine the turmoil within—yet he slept.

When he woke, matters did not appear much brighter.

He was having a late breakfast when the message arrived.

It was not from Francesca.

It was on expensively masculine paper, written in the clear, formal hand of a secretary, and worded in the formal style of, say, a royal proclamation.

In sum, he was invited to tea with the comte de Magny.

James sent an equally formal acceptance, then summoned Sedgewick and spent the intervening hours fretting about what to wear.

 

Francesca had had to send back to the Palazzo Neroni for clothes. Resisting the temptation to fuss, she simply told Thérèse who was coming to tea, and let the maid decide.

The result? Ruffles, wave upon wave of them. White ruffles, no less.

They began at the base of her throat, fluttering about a modestly high neckline. They quivered in a line down the front of her gown and shivered along the hem. Her arms were encased in a series of puffs, trimmed in silk ribbons and ending in, yes, ruffles. The first time she'd looked in the glass, she'd put herself in mind of those great cakes she'd once served at parties in London.

At one moment, she believed she looked equally delicious—and Cordier must eat his heart out. At another, she feared she looked ridiculous, too girlish—and he'd die laughing.

So long as he died, she could have no complaints.
This is what she tried to tell herself as Cordier entered the room, and her imbecile heart fluttered like the ruffles.

He was impeccably dressed in a tailcoat of the finest wool, in a shade that most unfairly emphasized the deep blue of his eyes and contrasted splendidly with the pale yellow waistcoat. His trousers fit like another skin over his muscled thighs. His snow-white neckcloth was simply, perfectly tied, every crease exactly where it ought to be. An onyx gleamed darkly in its folds.

But her mind turned cruel and offered an image of him naked, and of the pair of them entwined among the rugs and exotic trappings of his pretend seraglio, making love, impatiently and passionately at first, and later, so tenderly.

But it had not been lovemaking to him, she reminded herself, merely copulation and a means to an end.

The reminder helped her arrange a cool expression upon her face and a frigid little smile. It helped her pretend she felt no more about this meeting than Magny did: It was a business negotiation, he told her, and she, after all, was a businesswoman.

Thus the greetings were polite, the gentlemen's bows and her curtsy precisely what was required. Cordier and Magny were resolved to behave as men of the world and she, a woman of the world, could act with the best of them.

That's all you do
, Cordier had said.
Pretend and play games and lie…you'd say acting is what your profession requires. It's the same for me.

She felt a twinge. Well, perhaps he wasn't entirely wrong about that. Even so…

Oh, what was the use? What stuck in her mind was herself, in nothing but a shift, jumping into the canal to save him, like the greatest romantic ninny who ever lived.

Don't be childish
, Magny had told her yesterday, when they'd argued about what to do.
Stop thinking with your emotions and your pride and use your reason.

She was not a child. She'd borne worse betrayals: her father's abandonment precisely when she most needed him, her husband's cruelty, unchecked by anybody, unsoftened by any friend's intervention.

She could easily bear this small emotional setback—and carry her head high.

She held her head high and acted the gracious hostess, the role she'd always played so well and enjoyed so much at home and in the course of her travels. She poured the tea, urged the gentlemen to sample the delicate pastries Magny's cook had prepared, and all the while she kept up her share of entertaining if inconsequential talk: of books and poetry and plays and operas, all interspersed with that most interesting subject, gossip about one's acquaintances.

Then at last, when all the usual topics had been covered, Magny said, “Monsieur Cordier, you know my purpose in inviting you today was not purely social.”

“I am sure that if Mrs. Bonnard has a purpose,” said Cordier, “it is to cut out my heart—perhaps with that alarming-looking cake knife near her
hand—and feed it to the pigeons in the Piazza San Marco.”

Francesca smiled sweetly. “Now there's an idea.”

“Later, perhaps,” Magny said, “but at this moment Francesca agrees that you are more useful alive than dead. It took a great deal of persuading, I promise you, to bring her to this amiable state of mind. But she and I are now in accord, are we not,
ma cherie
?”

“Mais oui, monsieur,”
she said demurely.

Cordier's black brows knit and his eyes glittered dangerously.

“It has become clear,” Magny went on, “that so long as Francesca has the articles in question, she is not safe. To be safe is more important than revenge for old injuries. She has no affection for her countrymen, none of whom defended her in her time of trouble. She cares not what becomes of her
ci-devant
husband. Who tells the truth and who lies? What does it matter? But since you have not openly tried to kill her, I have advised her to give the articles to you. Then you may give them to the good people or the bad people, as you please. All we require in return is that you take these tiresome articles and get out of Venice and out of our lives.”

 

After all the difficulties, complications, trials, and tribulations, how simple it was, James thought.

They would give him the letters and all he had to do was exactly what he'd wanted to do all along: go back to England.

He had a job to do and it would be done and he would be done with her.

“I quite understand,” he said. “I'm relieved that you've been able to persuade Mrs. Bonnard to…”

He paused and looked at her, at those mad ruffles that made him think of petticoats and tumbled bedclothes. In his mind's eye he saw her tumbling over the balcony rail and into the canal. He saw her clinging to the mooring post…creating a diversion.

She was a diversion, from everything he'd planned, from his duty, from his reason.

“The terms,” he began, and paused.

Don't be an idiot, Jemmy.

“The terms,” he said. “I cannot agree to the terms.”

“What terms?” said Magny. “How much simpler can we make it? We do not ask for money, even knowing there is nothing to stop you from selling these letters to this Fazi woman—or to Elphick directly.”

“I'm not going out of your lives,” James said. “I'll do what I must because it's my duty. But after that's done, I'm coming back, Francesca.”

She went utterly still. If it were not for the ruffles fluttering at her bosom, one would not know she was breathing.

James looked at Magny. “All's fair, you know, in love and war, but I'll give you fair warning, monsieur. I will not let this woman use and abandon me. You might have her now, but I'll get her back, whatever it—”

“Please.” Magny held up his hand. “No more. I shall be sick.”

“I don't care,” James said. “I'm not French and practical. I'm English
and
Italian and—”

“And you must be blind,” said monsieur. “I shall always have her, can't you see?”

“Not always,” James said.

“Always,”
said Magny. “
Toujours.
”

“Always,” said Francesca and she smiled the slow, wicked smile.

“She's my daughter,” said Magny.

J
ames was sure the look on his face was priceless.

Hers was, certainly. She was as shocked as he was. But while he was gaping like an idiot, his head swiveling from her to Magny while he tried to discern the resemblance, her face turned a deep pink. She jumped up from her chair.

Still looking from one to the other, James rose as well, naturally. Whatever else he was, he was born and bred a gentleman.

The green eyes flashed at Magny. “Have you taken leave of your senses? I told you when you came here—”

“You do not set conditions for me,” said monsieur—or Sir Michael—or whoever he was.

She threw her hands up. “I can't believe this! It will be all over Venice—and then—and then—”

“
Aspetti.
” James held up his hand. “Wait. Please. You did say, ‘daughter'?”

“He is impossible!” she raged. “He's gone when I need him, and then, when I don't need him, he turns up and tries to arrange my life.”

“Your life is
merde
,” said Magny.

James winced, recalling that he'd said the same to her, but using the Italian noun.

“No, it isn't!” The green eyes flashed from one man to the other. “Why don't you understand, either of you? I chose this life. I have had lovers, yes, and with one exception”—she scowled at James—“they've paid handsomely for the privilege. But always—
always
—I choose. I!” She pressed her fist to her bosom. “I have never, once, done anything for any man against my wishes—except when I was married. I have done no more—no, a great deal less—in the way of carnality than either of you.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Magny said. “After all—”

“But because I've chosen not to live like a nun,” she cut in, “you say my life is excrement? It isn't. I've been happy. And free. And the only flies in the ointment are you—the pair of you. And you can go to hell, the pair of you.”

She swept to the door.

“
Un momento,
” James said. “A moment, if you please.”

She swung round, and shot him a volcanic look. “
What?
”

“Um…the letters?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Sorry,” he said.

“That was a magnificent exit,” she said.

“I know,” he said. “I am so sorry to spoil it.”

She stomped away from the door but not to the tea table. She crossed the room and flung herself onto the sofa near the fire.

“Her mother was a little temperamental, too,” Magny said apologetically. No, not Magny but Saunders. Yet James could not stop thinking of the man as French, and a count. Perhaps this was because he continued to speak English with the correct French accent.

“My mother, indeed,” she said. “You are always throwing temper fits about every little thing.”

“My daughter is a courtesan,” said Saunders-Magny. “That is not precisely a little thing.”

“Mr. Cordier is not interested in our domestic squabbles,” she said.

“Oh, yes, I am,” James said. “Very interested.”

“I'm not,” she said. “I'm sick of them. It's very boring, being treated like a child.”

Her parent sighed. “If fathers could have their way, our daughters would remain virgins all their lives. We would shut them all up in convents if we could. But we cannot, else the world will come to an end. Or perhaps not, since rogues get into convents all the time.”

“And I reckon the nuns thank God most heartily for that,” she said. And she laughed the irresistibly wicked laugh.

James was aware of the melting sensation within and had no doubt his countenance must be softening into an expression of pure besottedness, but it couldn't be helped. “Oh, you are naughty,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“No wonder I've come to such a pass,” he said.

“You're infatuated,” she said. “I've told you again and again.”

“I think you're right.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I don't care. It's your problem. My problem is how to end this skullduggery and stop people trying to kill me.”

James bowed. “Of course. But I am a trifle curious about your—er—about monsieur?” He turned his gaze to the beleaguered parent. “The title. No one questioned your assuming it? Wasn't there a difficulty with passports?”

James never had difficulties with his false identities, but his superiors saw to that. This man, however, was supposed to be dead. When he was alive, he was wanted for fraud, an astounding fraud.

“If only there were, he would not be here plaguing me,” the loving daughter said.

Saunders-Magny gave her an incinerating look. She returned it. It was then James finally discerned the resemblance. It was not so much in physical appearance but in manner: the way they carried themselves and their facial expressions.

The so-called count moved to the window. He
stood with his back to the late afternoon light, his hands clasped behind his back. “My mother's family was French,” he said. “The title belongs to my cousin. There is a resemblance. When we were boys, sometimes we tried to fool people. Sometimes we succeeded. We were good friends, you see. And so, when my financial troubles occurred, I went to my cousin in France. This happened at the time Napoleon escaped from Elba.”

James well remembered those times, especially the slaughter at Waterloo that ended Bonaparte's attempt to reclaim his empire.

“I helped my cousin in his efforts against the Corsican,” Saunders-Magny went on. “I was merely a courier, you know, nothing as sophisticated as what you do. My cousin, on the other hand—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Best to be discreet. Enough to say that it became most convenient for him to lend me his identity for a time while he had business elsewhere.”

“You can imagine how impatiently I've been waiting for his cousin's business elsewhere to be finished.” Francesca threw an odd glance at her father. It happened too quickly for James to be certain, but it seemed to mingle affection with exasperation. It vanished, though, as she turned her gaze to James. “But to return to our business, Mr. Cordier. You wish to know what I've done with the letters.”

“Yes, actually. I know they're not in your house.”

She smiled.

This was not the serpent smile, luring a man to his doom. This was amusement, with a dose of triumph in it.

“
Che io sia dannato,
” he said. “I'll be damned. It
is
there. You clever little devil.”

“When I tell you,” she said, “you'll slap your head and say, ‘How could I be so stupid?'”

“It won't be the first time,” he said. He thought of all the stupid things he'd done since he met her, all the mistakes he'd made. He'd made a mistake yesterday, in failing to trust her. He should have taken his chances, like a man, instead of acting like a coward, putting off the inevitable.

I have had lovers, yes, and with one exception, they've paid handsomely for the privilege
, she'd said.

It was a privilege, truly, to be her lover. And he'd been the most privileged of all, because she'd let him into her heart.

And now, he realized, if he wanted to win her back, he would have to pay for the privilege.

“It won't be the first time I've been stupid where you're concerned,” he said.

“I won't disagree,” she said. “I am so tempted to make you guess, and drive yourself wild. But then we should be at it forever, and I should like to get on with my life.”

Without you
, she meant.

Not without me,
he thought.
Not if I can help it.

“Yes, the sooner this is over with, the better,” said Saunders-Magny.

Think
, James told himself.
Think fast.

“It's complicated, as I said,” she said. “I am not going to shout it across the room.” She crooked her finger at James. “Come, you stupid man, and I'll whisper it in your ear.”

He started toward her.

Then he paused, frowning. He thought. He thought some more.

“Cordier, it's a little late to play hard to get,” she said.

“I'm thinking,” he said.

“Don't hurt your head,” she said. “I've already done all the thinking,
mio caro
. All you have to do—”

“Don't tell me,” he said. “Please don't tell me.”

 

Francesca wanted to strangle him. She'd been looking forward so much to luring him to the sofa and torturing him, whispering in his ear and making him want her. She'd looked forward so much to punishing him for making her love him.

“This is the last straw,” she said. She rose and walked out.

She heard his footsteps behind her.

“
Va via!
” she said without looking back. “Go away.
Vai all'inferno!
”

“That is where my mama tells me I will go,” came the voice of Don Carlo from behind her. “But in time, most beautiful one. Not too soon, I hope. I beg you will not make me hurry to the place of punishment and the imps with the sharp forks to prick my bottom. Because first, you see, I have things most important to do.” He reached her side. “I have the plan most cunning.”

“I don't care,” she said.

“Do be sensible,” he said, reverting to Cordier, the provoking, patronizing Englishman.

“The sensible thing to do, I've decided,” she said, “is to keep far away from you.”

“You want to be safe. Your—” He broke off, glancing about the
portego
for eavesdropping servants. “Magny said the important thing was for you to be safe,” he went on in a lower tone. “You will not be safe while that woman is on the loose.”

Her heart began to race. “Don't try to alarm me. I'll be safe when you give her the…articles.”

“I'm not giving them to her. I'm not on that side. And don't say you don't care whose side I'm on or that it doesn't matter.”

“I won't say it,” she said. “But I'll think it.”

“It does matter,” he said. “Listen to me, please, Francesca.”

She didn't want to listen. He was too persuasive and she wanted him too much. Time and again he'd caused her to act against good sense, to break the rules she'd spent so much time and suffering learning. She saw the great marble archway at the head of the stairs, only a few feet away. She could run down to the
andron
, and out to the courtyard and quickly disappear in the maze of narrow Venetian streets and alleys…where she was sure to get lost and, with her luck, fall straight into the hands of one pack of villains or other.

The other direction, toward the canal, was probably safer, but then she must wait while a gondola was readied for her. So much for dramatic exits. So much for running away.

She stopped at the archway and looked at him, into his handsome, deceitful face.

“You think I don't understand but I do,” he said. “You're angry with England. It's Parliament that grants divorces, and all those men—the country's lawmakers—treated you like the Whore of Babylon. They destroyed your name and your life. Why should you wish to save such a government? Why stop Elphick? Why not let them have the leader they deserve?”

She looked up, at the sculpted figures adorning the top of the archway: Neptune in a stormy sea with strange creatures about him. She'd left the stormy sea behind when she left England, or so she'd thought. It had followed her and found her, eventually. “I could put it better,” she said, “but you've got it in a nutshell.”

“All the same, you know it matters,” he said. “You've always known. That was why you kept the…articles. If it didn't matter, you'd have destroyed them long ago. But you kept them, even though you knew there was a chance they'd become a dangerous possession one day.”

“I've decided they're too dangerous,” she said. “I've decided it's not worth the risk, the unpleasantness. Why should I risk my neck for England, for that government and those monstrous men?”

“It was a bad time,” he said. “As your—as Magny pointed out, Napoleon had escaped from Elba. The upper classes were full of fear and hate already. They were worried about his returning to power and his possibly overthrowing them, with the help of malcontents at home. The Terror was
and is still vivid in many people's minds, recollect. Easy enough for the gentlemen in Parliament to picture their wives and children under the blade of the guillotine.”

“But I was not fomenting revolution! I had an affair! One! My husband had scores. He had a mistress before we wed and kept her while we were wed and has her still—and no one thinks the less of him!”

“I am not saying that you were trying to overthrow the Crown,” he said. “I am saying that these men were in a state of mind that made it easy for Elphick. A great scandal, a depraved woman—he redirected the general fear and hatred at you, a clear target. They could deal with you. Napoleon and political unrest constituted a more complicated proposition. You were simple. You were the diversion, don't you see? With everyone fixed on you, no one noticed what Elphick was doing behind the scenes. They behaved badly, I agree. It was neither the first nor the last time they've done so. But they were wrong, and I know that in your case they'll make amends if you'll give them a chance.”

She didn't want to understand the men who'd degraded and humiliated her. But she hadn't considered the context. It didn't make them any the less hateful to her, but it made their behavior a degree more comprehensible.

“I'm not stopping them making amends,” she said. “If you are who you claim to be, if you are one of the good ones—”

“Not
if
,” he said. “I want you to
know
, without
the slightest doubt. Not in six months or twelve or whenever we get it all sorted out but
now.
I want to prove it to you.” He paused. “And I have an idea how to do it.”