The Wrong Way to Catch a Rake, page 2
‘Don’t have a valet. Can’t afford one lately. Or much else for that matter. Which is why Hib and I are reduced to contaminating this would-be hotel with my presence. And that wasn’t what you were thinking.’
‘You have no idea what I was thinking.’
‘No, but it was a sight more damning than worrying about my coat. I’ve seen you giving me pitying looks.’
She was grateful for the dark. She supposed she had, which was foolish of her.
‘I doubt it. I certainly don’t think you deserve pity, Lord Wrexham.’
‘Sorry, censuring looks, then. You and Clapton and Mrs Banister and Hibbert and the others.’
‘Paranoia is a worrying sign of mental deterioration, Lord Wrexham. And as for Mr Hibbert, you are not only being unfair, but also unkind. He has been nothing but good and generous towards you, often to a degree I find baffling. And not once has he indicated he considers himself above you because of your weakness. If you cannot see that, then you are truly further along your path of self-destruction than I had reckoned. And, since you have sobered enough to begin feeling sorry for yourself, why don’t you set a precedent and brew yourself some tea and go to bed early?’
She’d said far more than she’d intended and she waited for his outrage, but he merely gave a short laugh. Contrarily, his surliness was fading as he sobered. No doubt he would soon be in need of more spirits, but in these strange moments between rising from and sinking back into whisky-soaked oblivion, she could catch a glimpse of what he had once been. These were moments when she did indeed pity him. Not that she would tell him so.
‘That’s quite a speech for someone usually so quiet,’ he said. ‘You’re right about Hib. He’s a good fellow. Can’t seem to convince him I’m a lost cause. He thinks I saved his life once. Didn’t, of course. Pure chance my bullet took out the soldier aiming for him. Makes him sentimental. Why don’t you give him a speech about wasting his time on fribble like me?’
‘Because unlike him I don’t waste my breath on lost causes.’
‘Ow. That hurt. You go for the jugular, don’t you, Little Miss Primrose?’
‘Primrose?’ she asked, confused.
‘Prim but rosy with your fox-red hair, like one of Veronese’s models all wrapped up in stays and neck-high fichus. You dress and act like a governess, but behind those spectacles you’ve eyes of a cat high on a wall looking down on the dogs gathering below. You know you can’t overpower them but you’re damned convinced you can outsmart them.’
She was feeling quite red at the moment, her cheeks flushed with both annoyance and alarm. Thank goodness it was dark out here. She really ought to return to the salon, but, since this was the first interesting conversation she’d had in the past few days, she stayed where she was.
‘Interesting. I’ve always noted that some people are much nicer when drunk. It appears you are in that group, sir.’
He laughed again and patted the bench beside him.
‘Then all you have to do is stick around a half-hour or so. As soon as I get my strength back, I’m off to refill my flask. Then I’ll be sure to shower you with compliments if that’s what you wish.’
She shook her head. ‘No. It isn’t.’
‘Are you certain? Everyone likes a good word now and again. For example, I could tell you your mouth is looking quite tantalisingly both prim and rosy at the moment. That’s a hard combination to manage. Your upper lip is a little on the thin side, though it has a lovely line to it, but your lower lip is an invitation for sin. Are you certain you don’t share your mistress’s taste for late-night trysts, Rosie?’
Her flush had spread to her chest but she did her best to keep her tone flat. He was clearly trying to unsettle her and she was damned if she’d show him he’d succeeded. It was becoming a matter of pride not to stand down first.
‘If I did, I’m certainly not likely to tell you, Lord Wrexham. And I would most certainly not choose a man so far gone he is unlikely to remember my name come morning.’ A moment’s silence fell after that rather blunt blow and her embarrassment was joined by a thrust of shame at her meanness. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. That was cruel.’
His laugh was soft. ‘Honesty often is. It’s a miracle you’ve survived ten minutes as a lady’s companion if this is how you usually speak your mind.’
‘It isn’t.’
‘Well, I don’t know if I’m flattered to be singled out for such candour. Or is this a roundabout way of flirting?’
‘It isn’t,’ she said again.
‘No. Not your style. Pity. Best run along, then, before those clods in there start wondering whether I’m having my evil way with you.’
For a moment he sounded quite sober. No doubt he was impatient to find his next flask of wine. She was tempted to tell him again not to... To at least try... She shook her head at herself. There was no point in that. She’d tried for years to stop her uncle from sinking to the bottom of a bottle, but sink he did. If she could not save the most important person in her life, the likelihood of deflecting a stranger from his chosen path of destruction approached nil.
‘Good night, Lord Wrexham. Do watch your step when crossing the bridges. It would be a pity if you didn’t make it through the night.’
Chapter Two
Watch your step.
Dominic very much doubted anyone at Palazzo Gioconda would feel any degree of regret if he were to breathe his last that night. Well, Hib would, but Hib didn’t count.
To be fair, after that tongue-lashing he rather thought Miss Rosie Prim might feel some degree of guilt. A conscience is a damnable thing.
He smiled at the nickname he’d bestowed upon her. She clearly hadn’t appreciated it, but it suited her. Her kind didn’t care to feel undignified; they liked to lecture others about dignity, which was rather rich, given the shameless pleasure her aunt took in the carnal delights of Venice.
He had to give Miss Rosie Prim some credit, though—she never showed any disdain towards her aunt. Either she felt none, or she was an extraordinary actress with an acute sense of self-preservation. It was possible but unlikely. He rather thought she just didn’t care. Numbed by life and circumstance. So long as her aunt supported her, she turned a blind eye.
He glanced at his pocket watch. He shouldn’t have stopped to exchange barbs with Miss Rosie Prim; he was running late. He crossed dell’Accademia Bridge and glanced over his shoulder.
‘Watch your step.’
Her cool words echoed in his mind. Across the canal, the Moorish façade of Palazzo Gioconda looked less decrepit in darkness. Candles flickered in some of the higher windows as the guests prepared for another night of delights. Soon they would join hundreds of revellers all around Venice in gambling and gluttony and fornication. It was a perfect city for men like him—cast out from their own worlds and hanging onto others’.
Perfect for schemers and thieves, high and low.
He turned his back on the sight and headed deeper into Dorsoduro, weaving a little as he crossed the stone bridge over a narrow canal that cut in from the sea. Venice had eyes, as he knew well. Eyes and knives poised to slip between one’s ribs.
Moonlight scarred the inky water, watched by windows in the high walls on either side. Perhaps they’d witnessed men swallowed by these fingers of the sea, but they would never tell.
One day he might very well not make it through the night, but he doubted it would be due to a fall from a bridge.
* * *
‘Did you enjoy yourself out there with the beautiful bad boy of Venice?’ Lady Grafton set her tone even deeper than usual as she leaned back against the mountain of brocade pillows on her bed. With her claret-coloured dressing gown fanned out over the bed like a bloody wing, she looked the image of a decadent empress. The curling rags securing her dark hair spoiled the impression a little, as did the laughter in her eyes.
Phoebe sighed and sat on the small sofa by the windows overlooking the canal.
‘Don’t be silly, Milly. There is nothing enjoyable about watching a man destroy himself, even if he does it with a quip and a smile. I was merely curious.’
‘About?’
‘Many things. He did confirm he had a bad run in the casinos and is forced to economise, but that doesn’t quite explain why he chose the Gioconda. It is too...tame.’
‘In that case, what is George Clapton doing here? Tame is the very last thing I would call that unpleasant young man.’
‘True, but he came to stay because of those horrid Farnsworthy twins. I was rather hoping he would leave now they’ve departed for Florence with their parents, but it appears he enjoys being out from under his papa’s thumb.’
‘Understandable. Sir Henry is a dry stick if ever I saw one.’
‘Dry sticks catch fire quickly, Milly dear. And that still doesn’t explain what Lord Wrexham is doing here.’
‘You are overthinking things, Phoebe. The Gioconda has many advantages for someone of his ilk. It is close to all his beloved casinos, and, despite calling itself a hotel, there are so few servants that one can come and go at all hours without being noticed. May I remind you we chose it for precisely those reasons? I certainly don’t wish for any busybody servants gossiping about my night-time activities.’
Milly’s voice sank into a seductive coo and Phoebe threw her a quick distracted smile. It was all true, and yet...
Milly sighed. ‘Something else is bothering you and that bodes ill for us. What is it?’
‘I don’t know. Everything is going well so far. The local nobility has taken a shine to you and we are invited everywhere. Even Mrs Banister has decided that your title and wealth offset your scandalous tendency to fall in love with foreigners and wander off with them into the night.’
‘She is simply delighted we have arrived.’ Milly laughed. ‘Nothing pleases her type more than having someone to look down upon. The person I truly pity is that poor son of hers. I hope he finds the gumption to rebel.’
‘I doubt it. And if he does, he might very well do so in a manner that will do him more harm than her.’
‘Do you think that is what happened to Wrexham?’ Milly mused. ‘Agatha Banister said his mother died when he was a babe and apparently the Duke is extremely upright and proud.’
Phoebe wrinkled her nose at that. ‘My least favourite kind. What other gossip did she offer?’
Milly rolled the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, casting shimmering shapes on her silk dressing gown.
‘She said he was raised by the Dowager Duchess, who was shockingly scandalous and filled her house with artists and actors. Not a salubrious environment for a child.’
‘I don’t know about that. It sounds more salubrious than the very pious one we were raised in.’
‘I would not call what afflicted our family piety, Phoebe. I never ascribed to the dictum that serving God should necessarily lead to cruelty.’
‘Fair enough. Well, whatever accounts for his need to drink himself into oblivion, it is a pity. He was once a very intelligent person.’
Milly smoothed the silk of her gown against the coverlet. ‘He still is, dear. Don’t underestimate him merely because he is a drunkard and a gambler.’
‘I am not. I’ve seen how well he plays the casino tables before spirits cloud his judgement. And Uncle Jack survived for years as one of the best agents of the Crown before the drink dragged him under. Perhaps he reminds me of him.’
‘My dear, I adored Jack, but he was as plain as old toast, while Dominic is one of the handsomest men I’ve ever laid eyes on and I’ve seen and sampled my fair share. That is the pity of it. Still, he may be in exile, penniless, and drinking himself to death, but believe me, the moment his pious papa kicks the bucket and Dominic becomes the next Duke of Rutherford, London’s best families will line up their daughters to bid for the impoverished duchy. And what is more, those daughters won’t put up a peep of protest. His looks and charm and the foolish fantasy that they shall be the one to Reform the Rake will have them climbing over each other to snag him.’
Phoebe watched her aunt’s face. ‘Do you fancy him?’
‘Goodness, no. You know my taste runs to bears, not sleek, taut panthers, and Lord Wrexham is definitely in the latter camp. Give me a big, burly fellow any day over a work of art like Dominic.’ She sighed blissfully and Phoebe couldn’t help smiling.
‘Like Alexei Razumov?’
Milly pantomimed fanning herself. ‘For once our mission presents me with such outwardly promising material. It is only a pity he hasn’t the intelligence or the heart to match his physique. Still, he shall do very well for our purposes here.’
‘He certainly appears taken with you. Don’t rush matters, though; not all the pieces are on the board yet.’
‘I’m certainly in no hurry, Phoebe dear. For the moment we are only what we appear to be. A wealthy widow and her meek companion, here to enjoy the hedonistic pleasures of this beautiful city. That is all.’
Chapter Three
The sun shone merrily on Venice and cut through the dusty windowpanes of Signor Martelli’s bookshop on a narrow alley in Dorsoduro. Having made it through, the rays settled on a plain straw bonnet and played gaily with its orange sash.
Dominic paused outside the window, watching the two people within.
The orange ribbon was a new addition, but he knew that bonnet and the prim woman attached to it. A woman who most definitely should not be a good half-hour’s walk from the Palazzo Gioconda in a rather dubious part of Venice frequented by impecunious artists and hungry poets that insisted on believing Venice would spur them on to fame.
Watch your step.
Miss Rosie Prim’s parting words to him the previous evening had echoed tauntingly in his mind all through the night, adding an edge to his night-time activities.
Clearly another case of someone preaching what they didn’t practise.
Dominic gave in to temptation and entered the bookshop, all too happy to point out she should heed her own advice. The shopkeeper apparently agreed with him. He was holding a book to his chest, perspiring freely, and babbling helplessly in a mix of Italian and English.
‘But, signorina, this book is not at all per giovani donne innocenti...it is...how do you say?...it is...ah, mio...’
‘I think he’s trying to say the book is too warm for gently reared young women, Miss Prim. Allow me, Signor Martelli.’ Dominic leaned on the counter and held out his hand for the book. Signor Martelli surrendered it with a sigh of relief.
Miss Brimford’s already rigid back had snapped to attention at the sound of his voice, but her posture now would do a Swiss mercenary proud. She turned and fixed him with her distinctive tawny eyes that despite their colour always managed to look frosty.
‘Kindly do explain, Lord Wrexham. I’m afraid my Italian is not sufficiently proficient to discuss such mature matters. I shall depend upon your excellent good sense to make clear precisely why this book poses such a threat to my gently reared self.’
Since this speech was delivered in Italian, he had to scrub his hand over his bristly chin to hide his smile.
‘Very well. Far be it from me to come between a woman and...’ He opened the rather battered cover of the book. ‘Good Gad... Fanny Hill?’
‘Heavens, he can read,’ said Miss Brimford, and twitched the book out of his momentarily unnerved hands. She laid some coins on the counter and walked out. Signor Martelli shrugged and took the coins.
‘I tried,’ he said, ‘but even the innocenti, they must learn somewhere.’
‘Excellent philosophy, Martelli. But one would think they’d start on a rather lower rung of the ladder and work their way up.’
Dominic left the shop just in time to catch her shadow disappearing into a narrow alleyway leading east. She walked without hesitation in the maze of alleys and over bridges, ignoring the occasional suggestive cries from gondoliers and tradesmen with the imperiousness of a queen.
Dominic closed the distance between them a little. She stopped.
‘Did you want something, Lord Wrexham? The directions to the nearest wine cellar, perhaps?’
‘No need, I know them all. I was trying to be chivalrous and ensure you weren’t lost. I’m still not clear on that.’
‘The dell’Accademia bridge is precisely five turns from here. Left, right, left, right, and left again. Along the way is the store of Signora Cavalli. I shall stop there for a purchase. Perhaps five minutes. If you wish you may wait and carry my packages back to the palazzo. I myself shall continue to the basilica for a further half-hour.’
By the time his outrage made way for a response she was off again.
In the fortnight since he’d taken lodgings at the Palazzo Gioconda and until the previous evening Miss Brimford had rarely addressed ten words at a time to him, though her cool, watchful looks had been more than expressive.
She was making up for it with a vengeance.
He ought to tell her precisely what she could do with her packages. He might yet, just to see those tawny eyes fire up again. He was quite certain he’d noticed flecks of jade-green tucked into the gold.
He grinned and set off in pursuit. He could do with some entertainment after his rough night.
* * *
Blast.
Phoebe had remained longer than usual inside Signora Cavalli’s paper shop, hoping Lord Wrexham would grow bored and leave, but the damn man was still lounging against the wall outside, arms crossed and chin sunk into his crumpled cravat.
Usually choosing a treat from the Cavallis’ beautifully crafted collection of writing paper succeeded in distracting her mind from everything, but today a certain cocksure drunk had ruined what had begun as a lovely morning. There was no reason to feel embarrassed in her purchase of John Cleland’s book, but embarrassed she was. She’d even been tempted to tell him she was not purchasing it for herself, but that would be cowardly.
