The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 11
Sometimes Dominic couldn’t quite read Sebastian, but he knew when his friend was holding his cards close to his chest. They’d worked together in the past and Dominic had been happy when Marcus had sent Sebastian to Venice under the guise of opening the Montillio Casino. It was a perfect cover for their activities and had the added benefit of allowing Dominic a home playing ground where he could safely rack up losses to the house bank.
Sebastian rose and poured himself more coffee. ‘So, let’s discuss how we stand now that we’ve eliminated Farnsworthy and Darlington from the list of suspects.’
‘We’re down to the Claptons, father and son. They were always the most likely. We’ve baited the hook, so now it is time to see which of them rises to it.’
‘If anyone is selling state secrets to the Austrians I would very much like to pin it on George Clapton, but so far all we know is that he’s a nasty bit of goods with a small mind and grabby hands. Not someone I’d expect the likes of von Haas to trust to keep his mouth shut about selling state secrets.’
‘Still, we cannot ignore him. I know he’s running low on funds, and now Sir Henry has kicked him out of the house he doesn’t have easy access to his father’s documents.’
‘He’ll be back in Papa’s home during the Consul’s ball the day after tomorrow. He might make a move them.’
‘I’ll keep an eye on him.’
Sebastian eyed him with a faint frown. ‘No distractions this time?’
Dominic clenched his jaw, more annoyed at himself than Sebastian.
‘No. I’ve had my fun.’ The words burned even as he spoke them and he went to refill his own cup.
‘Is something wrong, Dom?’
There was true concern in Sebastian’s voice and Dom grimaced at his cup, but he kept his voice light as he spoke over his shoulder. ‘All this concern because I kissed a lady’s companion? I’m reputed to have had sex with half of Venice. What’s one kiss more or less?’
‘I’m not a member of your audience, Dom, remember?’
Dominic sighed. He wasn’t in the mood for an inquisition. He wasn’t in the mood for much. He knew he’d made a mistake. A string of mistakes.
‘I never should have taken her to the Schiavantis’ in the first place,’ he muttered to himself.
‘You took her where?’ Sebastian demanded, sounding far more shocked at this than at the admission Dominic had kissed her.
‘What does it matter? I came across her at Martelli’s bookshop and she was hungry.’ Damn, now he was reduced to twisting the truth. But at least it served to distract Sebastian.
‘What did you eat?’
‘Rixi e bixi.’
Sebastian sighed beatifically.
‘Thursday. Wait a moment.’ He frowned abruptly. ‘Martelli’s bookshop was closed on Thursday. His godson’s wedding. I know because Giovanni had to attend as well.’
Dom cursed himself, again. ‘I took her on Tuesday, but then Giulia and Matteo insisted she come back for rixi e bixi on Thursday.’
‘They insisted.’
‘They liked her.’
‘They aren’t the only ones, apparently. What the devil are you playing at, Dom? This isn’t like you.’
‘I know, damn it. I’ve never made such a fool of myself in my life, and my whole façade is based on playing the fool.’
Sebastian smiled. ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. In fact, it’s nice to know you’re human and can end up with your entrails in a twist like the rest of us.’
For a moment Dominic considered confiding in Sebastian. But what the devil could he say? That for the first time in his life he was desperate to bed a woman. A woman he had no right to take advantage of. Who thought him weak and a waste. Yet she still liked him despite her disdain for what she thought he was. This conviction made his heart speed up even more. Like a damn fool boy. It was ridiculous yet it felt...good. He’d never wanted to be liked before. It had never occurred to him it could feel...necessary. Damn, this was foolishness incarnate.
‘It doesn’t feel nice.’ He poured himself some more coffee. ‘It’s a damn nuisance. And ill-timed. Until this issue is resolved I should stay well away from her.’
‘Agreed. In fact, perhaps I should be the one trailing Clapton—’
‘No,’ Dominic interrupted. ‘The whole point of my role as drunken fool is that no one takes me seriously, so I’m given free rein. You start wandering around the British Consul’s house and Clapton the Elder will want to know why. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. I might act like it, but I’m not a complete idiot. At least not yet.’
Chapter Thirteen
I want to go home.
Had Phoebe been in a good mood, she would have smiled at the childish thought that was throbbing in her head like a bad tooth. But she was not in a good mood. Now that Milly had slipped out of Sir Henry Clapton’s ballroom on the burly arm of Alexei Razumov, Phoebe’s role for tonight was reduced to her least favourite occupation of waiting patiently while others did the work. She was usually good at waiting, but tonight she was tense and unsettled and everything that made it abundantly clear that kissing Venice’s enfant terrible had been a serious mistake.
For heaven’s sake, Phoebe. What had you been thinking? Or rather, why hadn’t you been thinking?
Dominic was clearly regretting it as well. As far as she knew, he’d not returned to the Gioconda since then, and even when she’d spotted him entering Sir Henry Clapton’s ballroom with Mr Hibbert an hour ago he hadn’t once come near her.
He hadn’t even looked at her.
It was no excuse that he’d arrived late, as always, and drunk, as always. Both he and Hibbert had clearly begun their evening elsewhere, and with gusto. They arrived close to the stroke of midnight, looking a little worse for wear. As usual the women didn’t seem to mind. Dominic had already gathered a little crowd of them, like colourful petals about his dark centre. He was smiling down at them and she could hear their laughter from here.
Well, if one was to learn a lesson, it was best learnt fast and hard. She ought to be thankful to him for that.
‘Miss Brimford?’ Phoebe turned at the voice behind her. A blank-faced footman was addressing some point above her left eyebrow. ‘Lady Grafton is unwell. A maid is waiting by the stairs to take you to her.’
Phoebe went into alert. This was not according to plan. Had that lug Alexei harmed her when she’d tried to coax him outside? Tense and ready, Phoebe hurried in the direction the footman indicated and found a maid waiting in the corridor, a rather sullen expression on her round face as she watched Phoebe approach.
‘Where is Lady Grafton?’ Phoebe asked and the maid curtsied, looking even sulkier. She turned and hurried down the corridor, clearly in a hurry to return to her own business. Phoebe’s mind rushed ahead. Had something gone wrong and Milly had had to feign illness?
The maid opened a door at the end of the corridor and Phoebe hurried into the gloom.
‘Milly? What...?’
She felt rather than saw the movement. She turned in time to see the maid’s grin, the glint of a coin in her hand, just before George Clapton entered and closed the door behind him.
‘Alone at last.’
Several sensations swept through Phoebe at George Clapton’s slurred words. The first was relief—this had nothing to do with Milly or their mission. The second was alarm—a drunkard was unpredictable and therefore always dangerous, no matter what weapons one possessed. The third was annoyance—with herself at being caught off guard. Here was proof of the price of being distracted with trivialities. The fourth, and fifth, and sixth sensations were frustration, impatience, and anger. This was not the first time men had thought her fair game—poor, plain, without recourse. A low-hanging fruit for them to pluck to assuage their wayward cocks.
She pulled herself back from all of these reactions, concentrating only on what mattered. ‘I think there must be some mistake, Mr Clapton...’
‘Oh, no mistake. You needn’t play coy with me. I know how your aunt gets by. Saw her slink off into the shadows with that drunken Cossack. No reason why you shouldn’t have some fun yourself. Couldn’t do it back at the Gioconda, though. Too many busybodies. But now we’re on my turf and Father’s busy with the guests we’ve time for some quick fun.’
‘No, we haven’t, Mr Clapton. I am not interested in any “fun”, quick or otherwise. Kindly stand aside and allow me to leave.’
His sandy brows lowered. ‘No point in playing the prude. I’ve seen the books you read. I keep thinking of you, in your room, letting down your hair, in bed with your books...touching yourself...’ His breath shortened, his voice tightening but still heavy with wine. He shoved his hand deeper into his pocket, making no attempt to hide what it was doing in there. ‘You can touch me instead.’
Phoebe supposed the proper thing to do for a true dried-up spinster would be to shriek or faint, or both, but that was risky on far too many levels. She compromised by picking up a square-based candlestick from a table. It glinted dully in the darkened room.
‘The only thing I shall be touching you with is this candlestick, Mr Clapton. I am afraid you have a very mistaken opinion of me.’
He laughed, the bastard. ‘Is that how you like it? A bit of rough?’
‘I would say the edge on this candlestick is rather more sharp than rough. Shall we test it?’
His laughter faded as the veil of spirits lifted a little, and the sulky frown pushed forward again. ‘Don’t be a prissy fool. I know you’re not an innocent. Not living with that promiscuous doxy. And I’ve seen you making up to Wrexham, too. Not that he’d touch a plain meg like you, not when he has all those beauties panting for him. You’d do well to take what you can. I’ll make it worth your while. You look like you could use some pin money to buy yourself something pretty.’
She hefted the candlestick, so damn tempted to swing. ‘Stand aside, Mr Clapton—’
They were both caught off guard as the door swung open, catching Clapton on the behind and propelling him forward a couple of stumbling steps.
‘Where the devil does he keep the...? Ah, there you are, Clapton. You’ll know where the brandy is, won’t you? Be a good fellow and point... Oh, hello there, Miss...ah... Miss Primbroad... I say, why are you waving that candlestick?’
The last part of Wrexham’s ramble was rather less slurred, as if it had penetrated his alcoholic haze that he’d intruded on a less than pleasant moment. Clapton cursed, but Phoebe didn’t lower the candlestick. Nor did she answer the rhetorical question. Dominic moved deeper into the room, squinting at them.
‘I say. What’s afoot? Trouble? Are you misbehaving, Clap?’
‘Go away, Wrexham.’
‘Don’t think I care to. Not at all the thing, making women brandish candlesticks. Take a hint, man.’ His tone was still singsong, but there was something hard beneath and Clapton cursed again. Drunk or sober, Dominic had quite a few inches on him, not to mention muscles.
Dominic grinned and rubbed his fist. ‘Shall I deck him?’ he asked no one in particular.
‘No. I would rather do that myself.’ Phoebe raised the candelabra another inch. The urge to wreak revenge on this pompous bully was so tempting she had to grind her teeth together to stop herself from snarling. She had never been closer to forgetting who she was... No, who she was supposed to be.
Dominic laughed and came to stand beside her, leaning against the table. ‘Very well, then. Aim for the head. It’s thick enough.’
Mr Clapton did snarl. ‘You drunken sot. You’d best stay out of my way.’
‘Happy to. Never liked you anyway.’
‘I don’t want you to like me.’ Clapton all but spat the words.
‘Lucky, that. I don’t think Miss Brimford likes you either. Do you?’ He turned the wide-eyed question to Phoebe and she shook her head.
‘No.’
‘Short and to the point. That’s two against one, Clap. You’re not wanted here.’
‘May I remind you this is my home!’
‘Not really. Belongs to the Crown. So be a good chap and toddle off, will you?’
Clapton’s gaze locked with Phoebe’s. Her arm was beginning to burn. Finally, he stomped out of the room, throwing over his shoulder, ‘You’re welcome to the dried-up hussy. She wasn’t worth more than a toss in the dark, anyway. If that.’
Phoebe remained there as the door snapped behind him, her heart thudding and ears ringing.
‘You can put it down now.’
She started a little. Dominic’s voice had changed, softened. She lowered her weapon onto the table and clasped her hands together.
‘I ought to have beaten him to within an inch of his life,’ Dominic said without inflection and cupped his hands around hers, which she realised were shaking with fury.
‘No,’ she said and cleared her throat before continuing. ‘Then it would have been about you. And in the end, I was the one who sent him running.’
He smiled, but briefly. ‘That you did. He’s a squirmy little coward. That type is the worst. He chose the wrong person to bully. Would you mind very much if I found another excuse to deck him, though?’
She tried to smile at his attempt to lighten the mood and shook her head. ‘I don’t think you ought to. That might lead to trouble with his father and you never know when you might need the services of the English Consul.’
‘You mean in general or me especially?’ She didn’t answer this attempt at coaxing humour so he continued. ‘You ought not to worry about other people’s welfare all the time.’ His hands were warm around hers, his voice, too.
‘I’m not. I don’t,’ she mumbled. It wasn’t even the anger and fear that was making her mind stumble, it was his return to this unexpected, unwanted softness and the very foreign sensation of being...safe. It made no sense. If there was one thing she wasn’t in this man’s company, it was safe.
Still, it was such a wonderful sensation.
Such wonderful hands.
Large, long-fingered, a little rough, with a scar shaped like a starburst just above his wrist. The urge to turn her hands in his, brush her thumb over that small patch of pale, shattered flesh was so strong she was scared she might act on it.
‘I’ll see you back to the palazzo.’ His tone was tense and she looked up. He’d changed again, dropped that light-hearted mask, revealing something hard beneath.
‘Lady Grafton...’
‘Can take a flying leap,’ he replied. ‘If she chooses to disappear all the time and leave you to your devices, it’s time you paid her back in kind. I’ll tell one of the servants that you felt faint or something and returned to the palazzo to rest.
‘It will have to do. Come.’
She didn’t protest. She could hardly insist they send for Milly. And besides, why protest when this was precisely what she wanted right now? To return to her room and sink into a dreamless sleep...
No. She glanced up at him as he led her out into the corridor.
Not sleep.
Foolish, foolish Phoebe.
Chapter Fourteen
With everyone still at Sir Henry’s, the palazzo echoed like an empty ruin. At this hour the very few servants only came when rung for, and even then grudgingly unless they were well paid like Milly’s maid, or well bullied like Mrs Banister’s.
‘This place is gloomier than a crypt,’ Dominic said with a frown, his voice low. ‘I’ll go and rouse your aunt’s maid.’
She shook her head. ‘She is away with her family today and so is the cook. There’s no one in the palazzo but the Banisters’ maid and valet and I have no intention of summoning them. I am perfectly fine.’
He frowned. ‘I don’t like the thought of you upstairs alone. Perhaps I should have a cautionary, ah...word with Clapton after all.’
‘No, please don’t. I don’t think he is at all interested in me, really. It was merely his vanity.’
‘Oh, he’s interested. I’ve seen him watching you. Him and Banister. Very differently, though. Don’t allow your lack of vanity to blind you, Phoebe.’
She flushed a hot red and shook her head. He took her hand again and guided her up the stairs, his hand tight on hers. When they reached her door he stepped inside and inspected the lock.
‘No damned key.’
‘It doesn’t matter...’
‘The hell it doesn’t.’ He glanced about the room and she did as well, hoping she’d not left anything indelicate lying about.
‘Spartan,’ he murmured. ‘But your bed is larger than mine. Unfair. Well, we’ll manage. I’ve slept sitting up before.’
‘You cannot be serious!’
‘As serious as that candlestick you were swinging. I don’t trust Clapton not to turn nasty. What the devil do you think he will do now? Unless he decides to bed some poor maid, he will mostly drink himself into a resentful fury at the double insult of you rejecting him and me witnessing it. He’ll not forgive you for that. And unlike yours truly, he’s a brute when he’s drunk. I’ve seen him at his worst in the small hours. If it weren’t for his father, the Luzzattis would have happily fed him to the fish only a few nights ago. I’m afraid that, given your choices, you are better off with me as gooseberry until his ardour and the wine wear off. Now ready yourself for bed and I’ll bring another blanket and pillow and set myself up in your chair. Ten minutes.’
‘But I couldn’t possibly fall asleep with you in the room.’
He paused at the door and threw her a smile over his shoulder. ‘I agree it’s going to be a challenge. But we’ll have to manage. I’ll tell you a bedtime story.’
She stared at the closed door.
Mad.
Her heartbeat echoed in the silence of the room like the drums of battle. She unclenched her hands. She could still feel the pressure of the candelabra in her hand—the cool, smooth surface, its reassuring weight.
